Where the Lines Overlap
by naturally morbid
Summary: AU. John is the new librarian's assistant to research librarian Sherlock. He is determined to prove his new boss wrong about his expectations and they're both surprised when a relationship of sorts begins to develop. However, the appearance of a new coworker threatens their bond. John has his work cut out for him.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **My first Sherlock fanfiction, so I hope I haven't royally screwed anything up. I'll keep this note brief.

**Just a few things to know:** AU [alternate universe – as in different from the show's plot] Sorry if they are OOC, they tend to behave a certain way in my head, sometimes not always correctly. I've tried to keep the tone more British, and I apologize for any errors there. I'm American. Feel free to point any out to me (at least as nicely and professionally as possible – don't just use it for an excuse to flame or vent about your day). The library is not specific in the story, what is more important is character interaction (and eventually their relationship as that is I am sure the reason you are here in the first place). Who doesn't love a naughty librarian? ^_^ Yeah, I think that's everything there, for now at least.

**Summary: **AU. John is the new librarian's assistant to research librarian Sherlock. He is determined to prove his new boss wrong about his expectations, but they both might be surprised when a relationship begins to develop, where the lines between boss and subordinate overlap.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own. Not even the DVDs, at least this week. Title is borrowed from a Paramore song.

Where the Lines Overlap

Chapter 001: 000 General Works, Information, Computer Science

John Watson knew that he needed to find a job, now that he was fresh out of school. He had never envisioned himself employed at a library growing up. Yet, there he stood outside of his community library in the early morning sun, wondering exactly what he was doing.

He supposed he was bookish enough, though his passions had lain initially in the medical field. However, medical school did not pan out as he had hoped and he had to explore other options. Library and Information Science had proved almost as thrilling.

_It's just an interview, John, _he told himself as he brushed his hair away from his forehead. Already sweaty. _Nothing to panic about. _ His palms were covered in crescent shaped dents from his fingernails, his fists balling tightly for seconds at a time.

He had known the head librarian his whole life. John had walked through these doors numerous times for materials, for both pleasure and study. He took a soothing breath, gathering his wits, and pulling the heavy door open.

Cold air washed over him, permeated by the smell of well-preserved classics and crisp binding. It was comforting, familiar. John was sure to inhale a deep lung full as he proceeded to the circulation desk where the head librarian was waiting.

Mrs. Hudson was a petite woman with light blond hair, cut in a refreshingly modern style for a woman of her age. She smiled at John now and he could catch a glimpse of the heartbreaker she probably was in her time. He had always considered her like his librarian fairy godmother. There was no book it seemed that she couldn't find for him when he was a child.

"John," she laughed as she came around the desk to grasp his hand. "You look as if you are going to be sick."

"I'm just nervous," he told her, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"Well there is no reason to be. I wouldn't have recommended the job to you if I didn't think you weren't capable. Now come with me so we can get the formalities out of the way." She took his arm, escorting him toward the upstairs half of the library.

X

The interview was grueling, but John had expected it would be so. The Librarian Assistant position involved a few more administrative duties than just being a circulation clerk. As he left, Mrs. Hudson patted his arm and gave him a wink. John wasn't sure if that meant he had the job in the bag or if she was trying to wipe the worried expression from his face.

John doubted that he got the job, as he later considered the answers he had provided for the impromptu verbal quiz he to which he had been subjected at the hands of the director.

Walking home, he quickly picked a few other professions to begin exploring at least for temporary employment while he tried to figure out what would be the best life decision. He didn't dare hope that the job was his. He was never that lucky.

X

A week later John was having afternoon tea and scouring the paper for "help wanted" ads when his cell phone began to ring, with the annoying pre-programmed ringtone that sounded like a Caribbean cruise ship theme. He flipped it open without bothering to check the number.

"Yes?" he asked, figuring it was probably his family contacting him.

"John Watson?"

"Mrs. Hudson?" he confirmed.

"Yes of course."

"How good to hear from you Mrs. Hudson. I thought I got two phone calls before you sent the police for overdue books," he joked.

"Oh no, nothing like that! Besides, they'll be easier to monitor from work, if you should accept the position."

"You mean to say that I got the job?"

"Of course. Was there any doubt?" He wanted to tell her there had been plenty, but he held his tongue.

"No, of course not."

"So you accept?"

"Yes, yes, I accept." Easier than a marriage proposal and twice as beneficial.

"Excellent dear. Come in tomorrow and we will square away your paper work so you can begin assisting." They confirmed the details and John hung up, with the world looking much better than before.

X

By the end of the first day however, John was wondering if he would return for a second round of torture as he collapsed into a chair, waiting for his tea water to come to a boil.

The morning had not been off to a great start with the grey skies above signaling rain later. John was half way to the library when it began to piss down. He arrived, sopping wet, his dark blond, grey-flecked hair pasted down to his forehead.

Passing motorists had not minded the puddles, John being splashed every third car or so. Yelling insults had made him feel better, but did not make his trousers dry.

He stopped in the staff loo, located near the back entrance, grabbing a handful of paper napkins to try to minimize the damage. His shoes and trousers were soaked, his shoes making the awful squelching sound as he moved across the black and white tile. His button down plaid shirt was dry, thanks to his leather jacket. He hoped the "just popped out of the shower" excuse would fly if anyone was curious.

Stepping into the hall, John was more concerned with not being late instead of who might be venturing into the loo after him. He was knocked against the doorjamb, minor temporary pain flooding his back first and then his head as he realized he had connected with another person.

"Sorry," he mumbled, looking up at his victim. "Are you alright?" He noticed the most striking pair of blue eyes first, before he connected them with a face. His victim was quite tall, John only colliding with him at chest level.

The stranger didn't say a word, just stared down at John insolently. John couldn't help but notice how eye-catching his victim was, with high cheekbones and dark, curly hair. The stranger cleared his throat, and it was a few seconds before John realized that he was being asked to move.

"Oh sorry, right. Uh, nice to meet you…," John told him awkwardly as he stepped aside, into the hall. The stranger merely slammed the loo door shut in response. John swallowed uneasily, as he headed for Mrs. Hudson's office.

"There you are John. I was starting to think that you might have been washed away in all this weather," she laughed, indicating the storm beyond her windows. She took in his ragged appearance before he had a chance to explain. "Though it seems like you might have taken an adventure down the drain already."

"Well, I didn't think it was going to rain as soon as it did."

"Quite alright," she nodded. "Anyway, you'll dry once you get started. First, we'll get your paperwork out of the way for administration. I'm sure you want to be paid for your hours." She handed him a packet of things. John was in the middle adding his information on the first form when someone stopped into the office behind him.

"Mrs. Hudson!" a rich baritone demanded. She glanced up at the same time John did. It was the stranger from the loo. John looked down quickly, to avoid being recognized, even though it was probably hopeless.

"Yes Sherlock?" she asked sweetly. There was a pause and John knew that those keen blue eyes were trained on the back of his head. John thought his name was a little odd.

"You would do well to remind your dogs to stay on your leash," he said. John knew what "dog" to which he was referring. He slunk down in his seat a little further, trying to concentrate on filling out his paperwork.

"Well actually Sherlock, this is your assistant." John wished that he could have been anywhere else but the office just then. "We're starting his paperwork." John knew that he needed to turn around and confront his new boss.

Breathing out in a rush, he turned in the chair, it squelching from his rain-damp trousers. He could see a forehead-shaped water stain on the front of Sherlock's dark blue button down where John's head had connected moments before.

"Hello," he greeted, flashing his friendliest smile and holding out his right hand in standard handshake greeting. Sherlock ignored it, studying his new assistant carefully. "I'm John. John Watson," he introduced. His hand felt awkward just hanging in midair, so after a few seconds of no contact, he let it fall into his lap.

Sherlock made a sound in his throat and then looked over John's head at Mrs. Hudson. "And just where did you pick this one up? The community charity?"

"Sherlock Holmes!" she protested, "honestly!"

"It's okay," John interjected, holding up a hand to stifle any further utterance from Mrs. Hudson. "I'll just work that much harder to prove you wrong."

"Get used to disappointment," Sherlock told him as he spun on his heel and stalked off down the hall. John turned back around to see Mrs. Hudson rubbing her temples.

"Mrs. Hudson, perhaps I'm not right for this job. Maybe he would b-"

"Never you mind," she told him, "you're perfect for the job. Don't listen to him. Sherlock is just difficult sometimes."

"What happened to his last assistant?" John asked. Mrs. Hudson suddenly went very quiet, shifting papers around her desk unnecessarily. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"Poor thing. She had only been here a few hours and he sent her home crying." John waited for her to elaborate but she never did. "Couldn't be helped I suppose. That's why I suggested you dear. I'm sure it's more difficult for you to cry. You just finish your paperwork and we'll get started."

It was early afternoon before John could emerge from the office. Mrs. Hudson had run his paperwork upstairs already and they were now about to start their tour of the behind the scenes at the library.

John knew it would take him a while to recall the names of the people Mrs. Hudson introduced him to. He hoped they wouldn't take it personally if he didn't couldn't recall them all on the first few days.

As they reached Sherlock's office, John was relieved to see that his new boss was absent for the time being. However, upon further inspection, John wondered if he might have been misplaced among the stacks of reference books or papers. The place was chaos, in paper form.

"You'll be expected to keep it organized for him," Mrs. Hudson was explaining. "As well as this list of duties," she told him, handing over a crumpled sheet of paper. John wondered if his predecessor had used the sheet in which to cry.

The list did not look difficult. Housekeeping duties were listed, as well as handling money, answering the phone, processing interlibrary loans and overdue notices, and other administrative tasks. "He's one of our best researchers, but he is not a very good housekeeper."

"I couldn't tell," John replied dryly.

"Oh John, I remember your sense of humor," Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Now, I know this looks a little imposing, but I trust your abilities. If I were you, I would begin with the computer first, since that's what you'll be working with the most. I'll come check on you in a bit. Just familiarize yourself with everything."

"Sure thing." He meandered his way around the stacks of research, stopping to shift piles from his desk to other piles to create a workable surface. Judging by the thin layer of dust on the monitor and CPU, John figured no one had been using it for a few weeks. The library's computer system was the same that he had trained on at school, so he was already familiar.

He sat precariously on the rickety office chair that had been holding a stack of documents as he tried to encourage the computer to operate. If he thought the physical office around him was a disaster area, the computer was nothing short of a virtual wasteland. John busied himself with trying to find some way to organize everything in an orderly fashion, which impaired his ability to sense the outside world.

"And what are you doing off your leash?" a recognizable baritone demanded right beside John's ear, the breath hot and tickly on his skin. John, once perched on the side of the chair, found himself dumped on the floor, the mouse and keyboard clattering down around him.

"I was uh-well-Mrs. Hudson-Do you always sneak up on people?" John queried as he tried to maintain some dignity despite his less than graceful tumble to the floor. Sherlock was leaning with his hip against the side of the desk, scrutinizing John as he floundered.

"Only if they sneak up on me first. What, may I ask, are you doing in my office?"

"I sent him here Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson told him with pleasure, as she appeared in the doorway. "I thought it wouldn't hurt to get the renovations started today." With Sherlock momentarily distracted, John pushed the mouse and keyboard back onto the desk, using the edge to haul himself up. "It's a wonder you're able to find anything in this place. If I had more time, I would do the deed myself."

"I like it the way it is," Sherlock notified her. "I have my own filing system."

"No you don't. At least not one used by the rest of the world," John said, brushing himself off. Sherlock was now examining the relocated piles with an unconvinced eye.

"Now how will I be able to locate anything?" Sherlock challenged, picking up a stack of paperwork at random.

"How do you do it now?" John shrugged nonchalantly, though he detected the first bead of sweat running down his back. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but did not answer him.

"Can I see you in the hall for a moment Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked her, with his eyes still trained on John.

"Why certainly, but if you are going to try to convince me that John is not suitable for the job, I'm going to have to disagree." Sherlock was silent once more.

"Come back tomorrow," Sherlock told John.

"That's the spirit Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said. "John, if you'll follow me to my office so we can make a schedule?"

"Sure thing, Mrs. Hudson." He shut down the computer quickly, under Sherlock's inert stare. "You know," John started to Sherlock as he brushed past him toward the hall, "you're just like an old man. You would rather leave your office in a state of squalor than accept a little help."

"I am not an old man," Sherlock objected, the barest hint of a smirk ghosting his lips. "This is the office on a good day." John ignored him as he headed, stiff backed, to Mrs. Hudson's office. She was on the phone with someone, disconnecting quickly before John could catch more than his name being mentioned.

"Well John. Not ready to run away are you?" she asked as she drew up a schedule.

"A little," he sighed. Sherlock, for all he was good looking was as mean as a snake in the grass. And yet, John found that he couldn't quit thinking about him. John had never considered himself homosexual. He really didn't consider himself anything when it came to intimacy, as he had been busy enough to avoid it so far. So what if his new boss was good looking? He passed plenty of good-looking people every day, men and women.

"Everyone feels that way on the first day," Mrs. Hudson told him kindly, patting his hand. "Go home, get out of this dreadful weather, and have a cup of tea. You'll feel better. You have a big week ahead of you and Sherlock is not going to make it easy on you."

As John walked home, not noticing the rain still pouring on him, he had no doubt that Sherlock was going to make things twice as difficult on him. His kettle was finally whistling, John rising stiffly from his chair to take it from the stove.

John wasn't fond of giving up, even when he should have. _Come on old boy, he's just like a difficult child. You can manage him._ He stirred the tea bag, trying to rush the process. _No big deal. You've dealt with worse._

Mentally talking himself into it, John hoped that he was right and Sherlock wasn't going to run him from the office too. _Or if he does, I'll be sure not to cry. _He sipped at the hot liquid. _At least in front of anyone. _

John guessed he had some masochistic tendencies, as he resolved to show up at work again the next day.

X

**Author's End Note: **Don't be afraid to drop me a line and tell me what you think. I don't bite, unless you want me to.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much for all the interest in this fic! I really appreciate it and hope that I don't disappoint.

Just a quick note about this chapter. I'm introducing a female character for John to interact with, Maggie, Mags for short. To alleviate any fears of her stealing Watson or Sherlock, no she won't be. She's there more to interact with John and his burgeoning relationship with his boss, as well as to provide some history about Sherlock's amorous preferences.

Otherwise, it's still less about the library functions and more about their interactions. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I don't own. Title is borrowed from a Paramore song.

Where the Lines Overlap

Chapter 002: 001 Psychology and Philosophy

John was sure to bring an umbrella with him the next day, although it didn't look like terrible weather was in store. Mrs. Hudson had shown him where his personal cubby would be located so that he could store his lunch and other personal belongings throughout the day.

"You're, John-something right?" a female coworker asked as she flung open her locker dramatically, unceremoniously discarding her purse inside. Her face had the unblemished shine of a college student, though John was certain she was probably in her twenties at least. She towered over him, model tall and slender to boot.

"Yes, John Watson."

"Sherlock's latest quarry huh?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well, I suppose Mrs. Hudson only mentioned in passing about your last predecessor, right?"

"Uh, she might have mentioned something about that, yes," he nodded. The girl whistled. "Why?"

"Well, let's just say, that girl wasn't the first. We've had a string of 'em through here since he started several years ago." She jerked her head down the hallway, indicating _his_ office.

"String of them?" John glanced down the hall warily, as if Sherlock might be lurking at the end of it. He wasn't.

John wasn't sure why, but he experienced a little disappointment that his boss was nowhere to be seen. It wasn't like Sherlock spent any time in the office, otherwise it probably would be in better condition.

"Yeah. Glad I don't have to work with him. Best of luck to you though. Just hope he doesn't make you cry. You seem nice enough mate."

"Maggie, right?" John asked, her name came finally to him.

"Mags," she corrected kindly, "for short, as I always seem to be moving quickly."

"Where do you work?"

"Cataloguing, somewhere Sherlock doesn't visit very often. Drop in if you need a break from the 'Research Dragon.' If you survive, that is." She waved her hand around as she headed for the secluded backroom that latched onto the break room.

"Plucky isn't she?" Mrs. Hudson inquired as she appeared behind John.

"Mrs. Hudson," he gasped, trying to keep his surprise to a minimum. She laughed.

"Thought I was someone else then?" They didn't need to communicate who. John endeavored not to appear culpable of who he thought she was. "Well come on then. No need to dawdle. I know you want to get started straight away."

He wondered if that was aging librarian humor, as he was in no way eager to begin organizing a grown man's office. Especially one with such a deplorable attitude.

"Yeah, just a second." John finished setting his grocery sack in his locker. He thought soup would be quickest to eat for a brief lunch, with a spot of Earl Grey on the side for relaxation and familiarity.

As he arrived at Sherlock's office, he found it vacant, as it had been the day before. Leery of a repeat performance that involved John landing on his tender backside, he started with paperwork today, positioning himself where he could guard the one entrance of the office against unforeseen appearances from Sherlock.

The situation started as hopeless as it did the day before with the computer. Reference books were piled as high as John's knees, resembling research sandwiches, because of all the print outs stuffed between them. Article and book requests were lain everywhere, obviously not filled. Sighing, John ran a frustrated hand through his hair as he tried to work out a solution that would maximize time and minimize his frustration.

He began to separate everything into several categories: loans that needed filling, billing that needed sorting, research that had been completed, and random books or papers. By lunchtime, John realized the office was beginning to look habitable again.

He could at least see the floor.

John stood up, pausing to stretch and brush his clothing off before venturing out into the rest of the library. He had not realized how busy they were during the week as he watched patrons mill around with books and other materials.

But where was his boss when he wasn't in the office terrorizing John?

The young assistant's eyes lit on a familiar dark head of curls, as the taller man lounged at a computer desk, his feet propped on the counter, and a pen tapping on his inner thigh. Sherlock turned slightly while reaching for a stack of notepads, enabling John to see that he was actually in the midst of what appeared to be an involved phone conversation.

Shrugging, John decided to take the opportunity to treat himself to lunch, which he rightly deserved after all the work he had accomplished. He passed Mrs. Hudson's office on the way, giving her a small wave. The break room was not empty, John realized miserably, as he set his soup on the counter. Mags and a few of the other women were seated around one of the tables, gossiping.

"Oh, here he is girls," she smiled, all of them turning to gawk at him, "and it looks as if he is still intact." John busied himself with digging around in the cupboards for a decent container to heat his soup in.

He found a most unfortunate bowl with a bright pink rim. He resolved to bring a bowl from home next time. The thermos he had packed his tea in was still comfortably warm. "Oh come now," Mags amended, "I don't mean anything by it."

"I know," John nodded, his ears going red as he grabbed the can opener from a nearby drawer. "Just a little workplace humor right?"

"He gets it," Mags chuckled, "I don't know why Sherlock doesn't. Honestly, you would think the man was born unfunny." The girls around the table tittered in agreement.

"My, I pity you," one of them spoke up after a few minutes. John glanced over his shoulder at them. The one currently speaking looked similar to the other women seated around her with graying, nearly white hair done up in tight curls, some sort of coloured cardigan, and light coloured trousers. John couldn't tell them apart, let alone remember their names. He would need to work on learning them. "You would think he had some excuse for his behavior."

"Everyone does though," John, piped up, "whether they're aware of it or not. Maybe he was hurt in the past or something." The microwave signaled him that it was finished with his request, before John could wonder why he was defending his boss, who had been either nonexistent or rude thus far.

"Sherlock, hurt? No Ducky, he usually does the hurting around here. So far Mrs. Hudson has been the only one to get any sort of control over him," another spoke up, her voice throaty and harsh, most likely from smoking fags over the years. Everyone at the table laughed.

"Well maybe he's just lonely," John suggested, taking an open seat at the other table. The gossip party practically howled with that explanation.

"No, he's got his cold intellect and blatant rudeness to keep him company," the first woman spoke again. "I doubt any woman would take him in."

"But there has to be some reason for his behavior," John reasoned.

"You seem awful keen on him. I expect you're going to unravel this great mystery for us then?" Mags asked, raising an eyebrow. "Get beneath the iceberg that is the illustrious Sherlock Holmes?"

"Perhaps," John nodded briefly, before taking a sip of his hearty soup. The liquid was hot enough to scald his tongue. "I like a challenge."

"Leading my witch-hunt again, Mags?" someone alleged from the open doorway. John turned his neck so fast that it cricked. He dropped his spoon in the soup bowl, to pacify the twinge.

"With torches and pitchforks master," Mags told him evenly, as Sherlock sauntered in, grabbing a cup of coffee. He leaned against the counter, as if he didn't have anywhere else in the world to be. John tried to resume his meal.

It was impossible for John not to notice that Sherlock had decided to roll up the sleeves of his navy button down dress shirt, how the folded fabric emphasized his fair and unblemished arms.

He tried not to perceive how Sherlock's pinky finger delicately extended past the black coffee mug he was sipping from. How could anyone make drinking coffee in a worn out break room look like an award winning performance? How could John lose himself in watching?

"Having a bit of trouble with your soup there mate?" Mags inquired dryly. John flushed with rich color when he realized every set of eyes in the room were trained on him, his shoulders hunched, the spoon suspended between the hot liquid and his gaping mouth.

"It's just a bit hot," John covered, disappointed to hear the waver in his voice. He blew on the liquid gawkily, knowing that it was about as effective as closing the barn door after the horses have gone.

Sherlock refrained from providing commentary, instead settling for slightly raising an eyebrow to acknowledge the situation before promptly turning his attention to Mags. "So who is trying to unravel the mystery here? I'm the only qualified person," Sherlock commented.

"John is," Mags smiled, throwing poor John under the bus so to say. "Thinks he can figure you out."

"Ah, I see." His tone did not give any indication of annoyance or delight. It was perfectly neutral. John didn't dare glance at Sherlock's face, instead trying to make the tablecloth the most interesting thing he had seen all day. "And what is the gossip today?" Sherlock asked. "Wait, let me guess. Me? Right, of course." He took a long sip from his coffee.

"You must be psychic," Mags said. John sipped at his lunch quietly, but his stomach was in his throat, making it difficult to swallow.

"You're boringly predictable," Sherlock countered.

"As are you," she retorted. "Though, you're welcome to join us. Might do you some good."

"I'd rather be stripped bare and paraded in front of the Queen, thank you." John tried not to spit his soup out as a mental image of Sherlock stark naked flashed through his overactive brain. He tried not to imagine the lissome body lurking beneath Sherlock's drab professional clothes. John was assured the Sherlock would probably look better naked than he did.

"I'm sure we would all enjoy that," Mags winked, through her smile wavered for a second, so quick that John wasn't sure he had seen it.

"Some of us more than others," Sherlock finished. "If you'll excuse me. I think I will amuse myself in more advantageous ways." He headed for the outside door, the top of his head eventually floating past the windows as he headed for the picnic table near employee parking.

"Well John, already your plan to unravel him is working," Mags snorted. John shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

"I don't think I did anything."

"Sarcasm dear," Mags shrugged as the women began to pack up their things. "I don't know why all the men in this place have to act so strange," she sighed. "Don't work too hard John," she told him sympathetically. "He surely doesn't appreciate it as he should."

John wasn't so sure that was the case. He mulled things over as he finished his soup and concluded that he still didn't know enough to make a fair assessment of what Sherlock meant. He glanced at the clock, realizing that his lunch was almost over. After rinsing his borrowed dish in the sink, John headed back to the disaster area of Sherlock's office.

He was surprised to see the research librarian standing in the midst, his hands stuffed in his pockets, having a look around. John cleared his throat, rapping on the doorframe.

"Can I help you?" he grinned, seeing how Sherlock looked a bit mystified. "Or did you take a turn into the wrong office?"

"I thought I might have, perhaps," Sherlock supposed, turning to face John. They stared each other down for a few seconds. "I can see the floor again."

"Well good," John nodded, hoping Sherlock's aggressive disposition was improving. "That's good."

"I remember I abhor the color of the carpeting," Sherlock notified John as he vacated the office, returning to the reference desk.

"Just when I thought-never mind," John huffed to himself, lightly pounding his fist on the doorframe, as he sat back down to try to complete his work. At least Sherlock left him alone so that John could try to work, more for Mrs. Hudson's benefit.

Despite Sherlock's indifferent behavior, John couldn't stop risking glances through the open doorway to the reference desk. There was something alluring about him, all the same. In the final five minutes of John's shift, he observed the librarian in action.

An older patron had come in requesting material from the 1800s on her family line. Without too much of a fuss, Sherlock located exactly what she had been hoping to find, in just seconds, even providing her with additional resources she probably had not considered. She was naturally grateful, as libraries in the surrounding area had been unable to assist her without trouble.

While not completely impressive an act alone, at the same time Sherlock had been handling an extensive project with an education student who needed a variety of material in a short amount of time. The patrons did not seem to mind his aloof manner.

In fact, as John studied their faces, they seemed to expect it. John remembered what the librarians at university level had been like and realized Sherlock behaved in a way most becoming for his field. While Sherlock wasn't the friendliest person, he got the job done in double time.

Brains trumped courtesy any day where information was needed, John mused.

Still, he hoped that Sherlock would glance his way as he made ready to leave for the day, but knew it probably wouldn't happen. To Sherlock, he was just a bothersome insect. John brushed the feeling off as being nothing more than overworked and underappreciated.

X

_Shouting. An explosion. Men in agony. Blood everywhere…_

John awoke with the sheets tangled around his legs, nearly hanging off the side of the bed. It took him a second to remember that he was not back at war and that he was still in the tranquility of his bed, in his flat. The war that had soured his medical field hopes…so many men to save but no supplies…no he needed to think of happier times…

He rubbed his hands over his face, glancing at the clock. In vivid scarlet numbers, it informed him the time was 5:53 a.m. It was hours yet until he had to be at work, but his mind was already two steps ahead of coffee. Sighing, John untangled himself and stretched. His shoulder smarting slightly, remembering the wound it had sustained.

It had been a month since he started working at the library.

Yet, it seemed much longer than that.

Sherlock did not make John's job any easier. Getting a compliment from the man was unheard of, as far as any of John's coworkers knew. It had taken the remainder of the week for John to ply the office into something usable, and even then, Sherlock had merely said it would do.

John had not given up hope that Sherlock would warm to him. Or at least, not ignore him 90% of the time. Planting his feet firmly on the chilled hardwood floor, John prepared himself for another grueling day with the "dragon" as his coworkers used to refer to Sherlock.

When John had not quit the first week or shown any sign of tears, Mags had warmed up to him. John was sure that Mags acted the way she did because she was jaded in her position. She was only thirty, almost three years older than John was, and yet Mags was already considering herself one of the gossiping old crows in the backroom.

He also had to wonder if she viewed Sherlock as a last attempt at marriage or as an end to the expiration date on her ovaries. John sensed she harbored some type of amorous sentiment for Sherlock. There was something… unrequited about Mags at times. John tried confronting her about it one afternoon while they were on lunch.

"Mags, have you ever dated anyone at work?" John asked as innocently as he could. Instead of her usual boisterous laugh accompanied by some type of motion with her hands, Mags was subdued.

"Why? Are you considering someone?" she asked, waggling her eyebrows and trying to inject a spot of humor into the conversation. The tone though, was dead and flat, her smile only thirty watts.

"Well, no. Unless you count Mrs. Hudson. I have a thing for older women, you know, grandma porn," John chortled, hoping the joke didn't reach the head librarian's ears. Mags laughed for a second or two, before becoming pensive once more. "Did you date someone here and it end unsuccessfully?"

"You could put it that way," she sighed. John waited a few minutes, anxious for a salacious tale. Mags was always telling him about her exciting life before taking the job in the library. She, like him, had settled for tech services later in life.

"What happened?"

She let out the breath she had been holding, laughing bitterly, and avoiding eye contact with John. "I told someone I…" She stopped, flicking her eyes away from John's face, keeping them on the doorway as if someone might walk through. "I told someone that I had feelings for them."

"And?"

"They didn't reciprocate." John waited for an in-depth elucidation.

"What else?"

"That is all there is." Her eyes were glassy and she was shredding her napkin. "Excuse me." She stood up quick enough from the table to knock her chair backward. John's reflexes kicked in, his fingers just grasping the metal and pulling it toward the table again. "Right, sorry." She ineptly smoothed her hair and disappeared to her isolated desk.

Later, when Mrs. Hudson called John into her office to assess his experience on the first week, John asked her if she knew anything about Mags' mysterious suitor. He had a feeling that Mrs. Hudson kept a close eye on all of her coworkers, especially those seeking relationships. The older librarian looked shifty until John pressed more.

"Well, she and Sherlock had an awful row about three years ago when Sherlock started here. Apparently Mags fancied Sherlock, but Sherlock didn't exactly reciprocate." John didn't blame Mags for not wanting to elaborate. He now wished he hadn't brought it up with her.

"He already had a girlfriend?" John wished he could have stopped himself before blurting such assumptions out. Mrs. Hudson seemed appropriately dubious still.

"Well, not exactly dear. Sherlock's romantic sensibilities…"

"Are for the same team?" John realized he sounded desperate, but the words were already hanging in the air. It was understandable though. After a month of working for Sherlock, John knew nothing more about him than he possessed great cleverness and hated keeping his office. He was hungry for something about his boss.

Mrs. Hudson studied some inane paper work littering her desk a few moments, seeming to choose her words carefully. "I don't know if I would say exactly that dear. The truth is no one has gotten close enough to find out for sure."

John was already pondering what Mags had said about cracking the surface of Sherlock's tough demeanor.

Maybe Sherlock had a deep-rooted fear of women, one so deep that he wasn't aware of it yet. Maybe that was what caused him to tolerate men and loathe women. Perhaps it was a misplaced mother figure…all assumptions of course.

John needed something to satiate his inquisitive mind.

"John, he has allowed you closer than anyone else," Mrs. Hudson confessed, squeezing his hand gently, "and I'm grateful that he might have found someone impossible to chase away."

"I'll do my best to stay on," John promised.

X

Sherlock tapped his bow against the taunt strings of his violin. He played for comfort, the music offering solutions to his problems.

However, John Watson was a problem he had yet to come to a resolution for. With an aggravated sigh, Sherlock pulled the bow roughly against the strings, a most obnoxious chord arising.

Music was not helping his temper, so he set the instrument in the chair across from him, anxious for something else. He grabbed his teacup, swilling the brew down without tasting it.

John remained lively no matter how Sherlock treated him. The office, Sherlock agreed reluctantly, was more controlled. When John's shift was over, Sherlock would venture in, just to inspect the progress.

It was certainly more than those useless predecessors had been competent to achieve, and undoubtedly without grievance. John didn't even ask for Sherlock's preferences on the organization, instead seizing complete control.

In fact, John was seamlessly acquiescent, not asking for any orders and just functioning on intuition.

After the first few days, Sherlock stopped deliberating on ways to sabotage John's work, instead being more curious to see the final product. He actually did detest the carpet in the office, it being a long-standing argument with Mrs. Hudson about altering it.

Now, a month later, Sherlock found that he had grown used to Watson's presence in the office, managing the phone calls, paperwork, and other menial tasks Sherlock hated performing. Being tolerant of John's presence and embracing his presence were wholly separate things.

There was something reassuring in John's demeanor. His wide eyes and sincere face put most people at ease. Sherlock sometimes paused to listen to John direct patrons on the phone, so courteous, so… willing to please. A valued trait in many public service jobs and not something that Sherlock had much of himself.

And Sherlock was hard to please. He smirked, knowing that he would continue to push John to see just how far he would go to earn Sherlock's much sought after acceptance.

X

**Author's End Note: **Don't be afraid to drop me a line and tell me what you think. I don't bite, unless you want me to.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much for all the support you've given this fic so far! I really appreciate it. I hope I don't let you down. This chapter is a bit shorter, but I wanted it to end a certain place.

AU as usual, and some liberties taken with John's family.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own, never will, and are just playing with the characters for a while.

Where the Lines Overlap

Chapter 003: 002 Religion

After another long weekend of restless sleep, John returned to work not feeling at his utmost. The more he stressed about Sherlock, the worse his sleep became. Improper thoughts troubled him while he was awake as disturbing memories plagued his dreams.

The worst part was that John couldn't decide why Sherlock bothered him like no other. John just assumed it was wanting to prove to his boss wrong, that he was more than competent to do the job to the best of his abilities. However, something still nagged at John even when he told himself this very reason, something more.

Otherwise, thoughts of Sherlock would not consume him so. Perhaps it was a case of anxiety.

John, in all his twenty-seven years, had never had a proper girlfriend. There had been offers, sure. But going into the military right after school had diminished his chances of a normal relationship. John was used to the company of men, day in and day out.

Rumors moved through camps like wildfire, of men _being_ together. It was adapted behavior, similar to the rumors in prisons, about men changing their sexual preferences due to the lack of women.

John was fortunate to never been on the receiving end of one of those rumors. But someone in his unit bore the brunt of one. John was certain he had never heard so much drama between men as he did that week.

Trying to brush the memories from his mind, John realized the phone had already gone through two rings and was working on a third. He glanced uneasily at Sherlock's spot out front, noting that the taller man was glaring through the glass, clearly waiting for the phone to be answered.

Forgetting himself, John answered "Yes?" without including any of the introductory rigmarole about it being the library and whose desk he was answering for.

"John? Is that you?" Good thing it was just his mum.

"Yes, mum. I'm at work," he told her firmly, his volume dropping slightly. John carefully turned his head, just in case Sherlock felt like reading lips.

"Oh good," she said. "Glad you finally got off your arse and got a job."

"Mum, this isn't the time," John told her, his voice a furious whisper as Sherlock had walked in the office, and was leaning against the side of the desk.

"Sorry, then," she said, emphasizing the length of 'sorry' to show that she clearly wasn't. "I hope you're not too busy to have a spot of lunch with your dear mum are you?" John was sure to glance at the digital clock on the computer, so that he wouldn't have to try to see the one behind Sherlock's head.

"Of course not mum," he sighed, raking a hand through his hair. _Don't glance at Sherlock, _he mind repeated like a mantra. He knew the librarian was wearing a self-satisfied smirk no-doubt, his arms crossed over his chest.

"How about after church on Sunday then?" John was silent. He had not been to church in…months? He tried to recall the last time he had even thought of religion. "You do still attend church, right?" It didn't sound like a question. Double damn!

"Well mum, I've been really…busy." He knew she was going to unleash of earful on him. "God understands."

"Oh sure he does," she told him, her tone acidic. "John Watson, you know better than to-"

"Look mum, I've got to go. Busy at work. I will meet you at the church on Sunday. Ta!" He threw the phone in its cradle, as if it were a venomous snake. Good thing his mum couldn't see the recent thoughts he had been having about his boss. John was sure that he could deal with God; his mother was another matter entirely.

"Fancy that. A man of your independence, still getting calls from his mother."

"Not a word," John snapped at Sherlock, forgetting who actually the boss was. He finally risked a glance at Sherlock's face, to see if the librarian had realized John's mistake. Sherlock seemed amused enough.

"Tell me, are you a religious man?" Sherlock asked. John couldn't see how it was any of Sherlock's business, but he also couldn't see what answering him would harm.

"Not exactly no."

"Then perhaps you had better become one, and pray that I don't take offense to the tone you just used on me." John watched his boss' face for the barest hint that he was merely joking. His face remained impassive.

"Do you have a mum then?" John asked, hoping that maybe sympathy would save him. Sherlock's face exhibited the briefest flash of regret. John had some nerve asking about his personal life.

"Of course you twit! Everyone has a mum. How on earth do you think we get here?"

"Sorry mate, just asking," John defended, wondering why the mere mention of 'mum' sparked such a reaction from Sherlock. Perhaps his theory of mummy issues was dead on.

"I am not your 'mate' you forget, I am your boss."

"It's just an-never mind. I apologize," John consented. "Sorry for asking." It took him a moment to realize that Sherlock had already walked away. He sighed in frustration, as he continued his work.

X

The remainder of the week passed exceedingly sluggish. John wasn't fired, but the talk made it around work, behind his back, naturally. Everyone had some version of what he had said to Sherlock, whether it was lover's spat or a case of sexual harassment. None of it was even remotely close to the truth.

Sherlock made no mention of the clash to John again and it was difficult to tell if the episode or the talk afterward affected him, as he always seemed to use an acerbic tone. John did notice that his workload seemed significantly heavier, more things to do to keep him busy.

He was almost, though he would never admit it, ready for a break on Sunday, even if it was with just his mother. He supposed she felt like she had failed one of her children, John's sister going by the nickname Harry and living with another woman.

John knew what their mother's involvement had done to the relationship, the strain of her disapproval that led to the drinking habit his sister had unfortunately formed. John didn't mind the occasional pint or two, but he didn't find solace or escape the way Harry did.

He shrugged into his nicest blazer and went to hail a cab outside. It was too hot for a tie. John hoped his mother understood, but probably not. She rarely truly understood her children.

The church had not changed much since he had last visited. John wasn't sure what he was expecting as he stepped out of the taxi and paid the fare. He supposed he had been wishing it might burn to the ground overnight so that he didn't have to go through with meeting her.

Instead, the century old wooden building seemed to be in good standing, churchgoers giving him passing glances as he waited for her. If she didn't show, he would just go home.

He waited for ten minutes, almost ready to hail another cab, when her sucrose voice called for him. She was doddering down the sidewalk as fast as the pale pink of her pencil skirt would permit her and waving at him.

"Mum," he said, hoping the smile on his face would eventually turn genuine, as he grabbed her in a quick embrace.

"Not thinking of leaving were you?" she asked, though she probably already knew the answer.

"Of course not mum," he lied quickly, "I was afraid something had happened to you and was just hailing a taxi to find out."

"How sweet of you dear, but I know better. You never were the good liar were you? Harriet was always better." He noted that she never used Harry's preferred name and was still comparing him to his sibling's shortcomings. "Never the matter dear," she told him, patting his hand, "time for church."

He escorted her up the few small stairs, more because it was expected than because she needed help. She was probably a decade younger than Mrs. Hudson. Many of the regular attendees gushed over how much he still looked like his mother as they made small talk in the vestibule.

_Well, _John thought, _I might just be like her more than I thought. I might prefer men like her too. _He was made to sit close to the front, as if that would help the religion into him. John tried to keep from snorting. His mother had done this to Harriet as a child too and it had not worked with the best results.

When the service was finally over, John couldn't be sure what it was about. Sherlock had crept into his brain, making snide comments about how wrong everything was. What was worse was that John found he agreed with the version of Sherlock in his head. John felt dazed as the bright afternoon sunlight struck his eyes. He still wasn't a religious man after all.

"Wasn't that a lovely service?" his mum asked. John was sure to make some noncommittal answer. They walked down to a café that she enjoyed. Once they were seated and had ordered, she lit into him with a barrage of conversation.

"This job of yours-" she started, stirring the cream in her tea around a few times.

"Pays my rent," John finished for her, glancing at the people passing by them. "And I happen to enjoy it."

"I asked around about your boss," she told him pointedly.

"And?" John sipped at his tea.

"Well…he is an odd sort isn't he?"

"What exactly do you mean?" She proceeded to tell him what someone's hairdresser's sister's cousin's boyfriend's sister had told her, about Sherlock only being seen in the company of men.

"Your point?" John requested evenly.

"Oh no point," she told him, though her hands said clearly there was, "no point at all. Just something interesting I heard." She sipped at her tea as John waited. There was more to this line of thought. "What about you? I've heard that you work with a very attractive girl, Macey-something."

"Maggie and we're just friends." If he could really call her that. Sometimes John wasn't sure.

His mother scoffed, "Just friends. Humph. You need a proper girlfriend John. I am not going to be around forever to see grandchildren, since Harriet has failed me so. I know a lovely girl; please allow me to set you up with her." There was the rest of the argument he had been waiting on.

"No mum," John sighed, rubbing his temples.

"Just one date," she protested.

John stood up hastily from the table, glancing around for the waiter. His mother always seemed to do this; ruin a nice afternoon out. He waved the university student-looking waiter over, mouthing that he wanted the check.

"John Watson," his mother said sharply.

"Mum," John replied, retrieving his wallet and counting the quid. Tea was a little more expensive at this café than he could probably afford this week, but it was a small price to pay to leave his mother sitting at the table. Sometimes they made it through lunch and payment before they had a row, as it was an unspoken agreement that she paid for his tolerance.

"You always do this to me."

"And you always ruin a nice afternoon," he told her, taking the final swig from the cup as the waiter appeared again, check in hand. John handed over the money, waiting for change. "Is it any wonder Harry turned out the way she did, seeking the affection of another woman because you only gave her grief?" John didn't mind if his mother was overly attentive to him, but he wasn't fond of her talking behind Harry's back the way she tended to.

His mother sputtered a few times, like an old automobile.

"Exactly mum." The waiter returned with his meager change. "Always nice to see you," he told her, accompanied by a brief smile. "Call again when you forget this is how Sunday always goes." He walked off down the block, waiting until he was out of her sight to take the blazer off. Unfortunately, the tea had cost the second half of his cab fare, so he would have to walk this week if he didn't want to risk the Underground.

It was a pleasant enough day, though a tad hot for his liking, so he walked. John was glad he had decided to forgo the uncomfortable dress shoes for tennis shoes. He reflected over the familiar turn of events on the way home, resolving to try to contact Harry for a quick chat when he returned to his flat.

Unfortunately, a strange sight met him at his doorstep.

Sherlock was standing on the steps, glancing up at the dark windows.

"Un-bloody-believable," John swore under his breath as he quickened his pace to intercept the taller man. Just when his day wasn't exciting enough, his boss, the source of trouble, had to show up as well. "Got anything you want me to file for you?" John asked, stealing Sherlock's attention, as he stood beside him, breathless, "any papers you neglected to throw on the desk?"

"Why Watson, your tone is scalding," Sherlock replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"How did you even find out where I live?"

"Mrs. Hudson was kind enough to indulge me."

"Excuse me if I'm not jumping for joy here," John said, "but I've just had one headache. I don't need a second. I shall see you tomorrow at work, when we return to our usual master and servant relationship instead of this Twilight Zone episode I seem to be trapped in."

"Actually, I was here about your mother."

"Why? Going to impersonate her? I think I might have one of her hats neglected in my closet."

"No, I thought we could talk, over there in the park. I see that you had a disastrous morning, probably because of the disastrous week I gave you." That stole all the wind from John's sails. Sherlock actually sounded…human.

"There's some sort of catch," John prompted.

"Other than being in my company?" He seemed sincere enough.

"Why not?" John sighed, following Sherlock across the almost deserted street.

X

**Author's End Note: …**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **Thank you to my lovely friend for the cover! I let another friend read through it for me and give me his opinion too, which was approved.

Hope no one is OOC. Added Mycroft and he takes off a bit on his own…

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anyone or anything recognizable. You should know that by now.

Where the Lines Overlap

Chapter 004: 003 Social Sciences

John was quiet as he and Sherlock meandered through the park. It was a beautiful, late spring day, with the sun shining for once. John wished that he had dropped the blazer in his apartment, as it was cumbersome having to carry it around.

"Did you actually mean what you said about me parading around in one of your mother's old hats?" Sherlock asked, breaking the silence. Having had a moment to think clearly, John snorted with restrained laugher.

"With the morning I've had," he sighed, "perhaps." A lopsided grin spread over Sherlock's face.

"Is the hat plum or rose colored?"

"What?"

"The hat," Sherlock continued, "plum or rose?"

"Rose, with actual crushed roses around it. How did you know what colors it wasn't?"

"Guesswork and elimination. You inherited your hair and eye color from your mother?"

"Yes. I look a lot like her."

"Then don't wear grey."

"Why? Wait, what? Did you come here to discuss my wardrobe?" John asked, feeling his temper flare.

"No, not until you mentioned the cross-dressing."

"Cross-dressing? With the hat? No, I was-it was-just-" John ran a hand through his hair as he often did when something frustrated him. _I'll be bald in no time if I keep that up. _One look at Sherlock's face told him the other man had been jesting. "I'm not sure it would go with your hair."

"Oh my, now who is being 'catty?'" The other man fixed him with a brief, sardonic look. They continued walking around the picturesque pond centered in the park.

"Look, Sherlock why did you really drop by my flat?" John asked, anxious to move the conversation along while his blood pressure was still in check.

"As I said, I wanted a chat."

"You, wanting a chat? That's rich. You don't chat, you command."

"Why John, I am hurt by your accusation, even though it is pretty much spot on." John didn't apologize as they stopped for a rest on a nearby wood and wrought iron bench.

"Well, how did you know about my morning?"

"I've worn the same look a few times enough to know when things have not gone according to plan."

"That's for sure," John mumbled, leaning against the uncomfortable board plats.

"Most sons also have a love-hate relationship with their mother; I assumed you followed the same standard-"

"As you?"

"Me included," Sherlock nodded.

"Mothers are difficult to please aren't they?" John sighed, recalling what his mother had thought of Sherlock.

"Yes, they either want you to marry or want you to marry someone they have already chosen for you."

"Yeah, that's usually the argument. It doesn't help if you have a homosexual sibling either."

"Sister or brother?"

"What?"

"If you continue to reply 'what' to every question John, I will shove you from the bench," Sherlock told him. "Do you have a homosexual sister or brother?"

"Sister. Harry" John said as he blinked a few times.

"I have a brother, Mycroft. Mother never forgave herself for him and tried to prevent me from taking the same route."

"That's my mum's latest tactic, even though I'm twenty-seven and well beyond her scope of control."

"Is it working?"

"Well I think you should know the answer to that," John told him pointedly.

"It appears not, or you wouldn't be so flustered." John felt himself blush as he watched a few ducks floating across the pond. He realized he had relaxed somewhat, having someone who understood.

"Have you ever had a girlfriend Sherlock?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock replied calmly. "Or a boyfriend either," he continued, guessing John's next question. "But I must be going. Tea with Mycroft. It's the only thing that keeps him from poking around in my life." It did not escape John's notice that Sherlock side-stepped further exploration of significant others.

"Oh, alright then," John said, feeling disappointed that it seemed like Sherlock had just arrived and was now leaving. Then John got a hold of himself and remembered that he should be relieved the stoic man was parting ways with him for the day.

"However, I'll walk you back to your flat, as it is on the way."

"You don't have to." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

"Ready to be shot of me then?"

"That's not what I meant," John said, exasperated once more. He realized Sherlock was chuckling. "I mean-never mind. You said it's on the way." They stood up and set off once more, John having to mind his pace to keep up with Sherlock's long legs.

"Does your brother keep tabs on your work?" John asked, wondering if Mycroft was anything like his own mother. Sherlock didn't answer for a minutes; John wasn't sure if the taller man had heard him and was ignoring his request, or if he hadn't heard him clearly.

"Yes. Mycroft has his fingers in a lot of pies these days," Sherlock spoke softly as they arrived back at the steps to John's flat. "I suppose it comes with being the government though," he continued. "Tomorrow John." Sherlock turned on his heel and headed off down the block, leaving John feeling very much like Cinderella when her carriage turned back into a pumpkin.

X

Whenever John felt that he was a step closer to figuring out the mystery known as his boss, he realized he was several steps further away. Monday morning brought headaches from all the work that accumulated over the weekend. John tried not to let the fact that he had been unable to reach Harry Sunday night for a chat cloud his work outlook.

The Saturday shift had piled requests as high as the desk for John to sort through. He wondered what happened while he was away on Saturdays that no one could seem to take the proper time to stack requests in the area he had designated.

John was shifting piles around, trying to find the most urgent requests when there came a knock from the doorway. "Sherlock," John started, "if you don't allow me to clean up, I'm afraid I'll have to lend you my mother's-"John didn't finish his sentence as he turned and came face to face with a stranger.

"Your mother's what?" the stranger asked, eyeing the office with a mix of morbid curiosity and disdain. The look was familiar to John, but he couldn't place where he had previously seen it.

"Never mind," John answered quickly as he dropped a stack of papers onto the nearest surface. "May I help you? The research librarian is unavailable at this time, but he will be in later." John supposed Sherlock had taken his designated break while his back had been turned.

"Oh no, I'm not here to see him I'm afraid."

"Alright. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson then," John answered smoothly, side-stepping the stranger and indicating the hall where the head librarian's desk was.

"Just had a lovely chat with dear Mrs. Hudson," the stranger told him, stepping closer, "but she is not who I am after either," the stranger continued, commandeering John's chair and fixing him with a pointed look.

"Me? Why on earth would you mean me?" John felt a lump forming in his throat that the stranger was to be the bearer of bad news about Harry. Perhaps there had been a more sinister reason John had been unable to reach her last night, other than she probably neglected charging her mobile.

"Well, it seems that you are my brother's new assistant."

"Yes," John confirmed, relief washing through him that this stranger had nothing to do with Harry. He stuffed his hands down in his pockets, leaning against the doorframe and hoping the sweat wouldn't show through his shirt just yet.

Today, he had reluctantly taken Sherlock's advice and worn a green button-down with black trousers. The yellow-based color enhanced his skin and kept him from being sallow colored as per usual.

John studied the stranger a second or two more, ready to kick himself as the pieces fell into place. Sherlock's brother, Mycroft. No wonder the expression had seemed so familiar. Sherlock had worn it at least a dozen times in the office. Mycroft appeared slightly older than his boss, more settled into a particular lifestyle.

"You must be Mycroft then."

"Very good. No assistant yet has had the opportunity to be introduced to me. You must be super human." John chuckled.

"Not quite. I'll settle for just human."

"Please, you probably have earned a medal of some kind, honors, for putting up with my little brother this long."

"No, nothing like that. He's not as bad as everyone claims."

"Then he must appreciate you a great deal. You see, my brother is…for lack of a better word…different."

"Oh no, I realize that," John nodded.

"Do you?" Mycroft asked.

"What are you trying to say here?" John asked, starting to feel uncomfortable.

"Sherlock lacks friends."

"I can see why." Mycroft laughed.

"I just…worry about him when anyone new comes into his life. I like to know who is influencing him."

"Influencing him? I have done no such thing."

"Are you certain?" John recalled their conversation from the day before, and then wondered how Sherlock was going to use it against him at a later point.

"I'm certain. He's just as cruel as he was the day I began working here. In fact," John said, abandoning the doorframe as his crutch, "he's meaner all the time."

"Is he now?" John nodded, hoping it was convincing. He could feel the sweat beginning in the crook of his underarms. Unfortunately, the longer Mycroft held his gaze, the more places John began to sweat.

The most frustrating thing was why he was defending Sherlock this way. Anyone else would be delighted if his or her difficult to handle brother was behaving himself. However, John sensed a deep rivalry in this relationship and instinctively knew that any chink in the armor of his boss would end badly later on.

"Because you know," Mycroft continued, glancing over the items on the desk, "a brother, maybe not very close to his sibling, can tell when something has changed." He fixed John with a meaningful look. John felt the beads of sweat beginning under his hairline. If this interview went much longer, the sweat would begin pouring down his face. "But perhaps I'm the one who has changed," Mycroft said softly, as he rose from John's chair. To John, the statement seemed hollow.

"Maybe," John agreed.

"Keep in touch?" Mycroft told John, as he brushed past. John provided him with a curt nod, the question sounding more like a command. When he was sure that Sherlock's brother was out of sight, John collapsed in the comfort of his chair. What had Sherlock done yesterday? Had his "friendly" chat with John been a set up for being hassled by Sherlock's brother?

X

**Author's End Note: **Sorry it's a bit short!


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** I appreciate all of the continued support for this story. It means so much that you continue to enjoy it!

Just a quick clarification for something in this chapter. I'm sure it is no big deal, but I just want to clarify the use. With John's background in warzone Afghanistan, he is bound to have some flashbacks. The mention of language (as best I can tell is used there - Pashto and Dari) is just a vehicle. John does explain (with his scattered thoughts) why it triggers a reaction, sort of anyway. Just wanted to let you guys know that I am not thinking negatively of Afghanistan or any other middle eastern country, heritage, etc, nor is John. No, the poor man he overhears in the library does not have any ulterior motives and will probably not be mentioned again. However, if it is too sensitive, I will change it as soon as possible.

Otherwise, enjoy another installment! My usual, hope no one is OOC (which happens when they are moved around between worlds). Sorry for any mistakes. I am only human after all.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything. Seriously. Cuz if I did, I wouldn't be on … probably

Where the Lines Overlap

Chapter 005: 004 Languages

John did not mention Mycroft's visit to Sherlock when his supervisor later returned from break. His boss gave no indication of knowing anything about his brother's visit, but John knew better than to trust his instincts when it came to Sherlock. The man wasn't fond of normal communication.

John knew that he was probably not adequately hiding his feelings, but Sherlock did not pry if he suspected something was wrong. The remainder of the week was spent with normal duties, also known as cleaning up after Sherlock-at least in John's mind.

On Friday morning however, there was a slight change in plans.

"John," Mrs. Hudson called, catching him before his shift started in Sherlock's office. She looked flustered as she hurried down the hall towards him.

"Mrs. Hudson, is something wrong?" John asked as he met her halfway, wondering if something had happened to Sherlock, before guiltily wondering if it was something with Mrs. Hudson.

"One of my circulation girls is ill. I need a replacement," she told him hurriedly. "Can you possibly fill in for her?"

"Well, I don't know… I suppose. How bad could it be?" He smiled.

Around one p.m., John found out exactly how bad it could be and why he preferred being an assistant.

The morning started promisingly enough. He was paired with one of the older women who had laughed at him the day in the break room. Her name was Hilda and she had been married for forty-something years.

"My Verne," then "this or that, "her next sentence usually started as she kept telling John while she showed him around the main circulation desk. It made for confusing conversation, since it was just the two of them. John couldn't decide if Verne was a man or an idea.

He nodded respectfully, nonetheless, and hoped some patrons would be able to distract her. He didn't think he would ever be admitting this to himself, but he missed Sherlock, even with all of his biting sarcasm.

The first few patrons of the morning were regulars that Hilda knew on first name basis, leaving John free to find other ways to keep himself occupied at the desk. He wished he could bring some of Sherlock's work around with him, but Hilda said the director frowned upon anything but waiting patiently at the desk for patrons to assist.

John listened idly to Hilda's latest conversation about the recent decline in the quality of garden gnomes, realizing he had straightened the same orange pad of post-it notes for the hundredth time. _Garden gnomes, hm? Wonder how one would look in my fl-_ He stood up straighter, realizing he was growing ever closer to the dangerous path of canning his own preserves and knitting sweaters for the grandchildren on the weekends.

The desk was suddenly flooded with school age children, all carrying stacks of books to return. Hilda was still engaged in her conversation, leaving John to fend for himself. He took the books as quickly as he could, trying to run them beneath the laser on the desk. The children were all speaking rapidly at him, some with difficult to understand dialects.

John blew out a frustrated breath, pushing his hair from his forehead as he shot Hilda a meaningful look. She gave him the "in a minute" gesture. John wasn't sure he had ever seen this many children.

Nearby a mobile was ringing, a man of middle-eastern descent answering it quickly before a librarian could shush him. John didn't mean to listen in, but he caught fragments of the man's conversation, the words were not as important at the language they were spoken in. During his brief tour of Afghanistan, John knew maybe a word or two in Pashto and Dari from his travels.

Suddenly, John could not recall where he was. Everything as bedlam of voices, explosions, and screams. On instinct, John dived under the solid desk, hitting his head on the hard lip of wood, and going cold.

X

John's head ached as his eyes tried to focus on the moving shapes before him. His ears felt full of cotton balls, his vision alternating light and dark. He could feel someone grasping the front of his shirt, yelling indistinctly.

John tried to force them away, but his hands felt like two numb slabs of beef. He caught catches of his name being repeated. Thankfully, the explosions and the screaming seemed to have been silenced. He wondered if he had somehow been hurt out in the field again, before his memory caught up to him.

No, it had been a flashback.

That poor man had just been answering his mobile and John had lost control. At least john stopped jumping when cars occasionally backfired. Of course, snatches of a phone conversation did not seem to be heading in the right direction either. He really needed to start the therapy again.

John realized it was Sherlock holding him up by the front of his shirt.

"You can let go now," John told them, the words tasting fuzzy in his dry mouth. However, he wasn't sure he would be able to sit up. Sleeping seemed like such a good idea… Whatever John had just said must not have come out right, he realized, as there was more shouting.

The whole situation would be laughable, if only they would let him rest, so that he could puzzle out what they were shouting. His head felt like he had been stabbed right between the eyes and he was dimly aware of something hot dripping down his nose.

He could make out Mrs. Hudson pressing a paper napkin to his forehead. His eyes felt like they were crossing trying to watch her though. He stopped, shutting them for a few seconds.

"Head wounds always bleed the worst," Sherlock explained to Mrs. Hudson as he took the napkin from her, dabbing at John's forehead. Unable to control his own head, John found he was only able to watch Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson held the bag of ice to John's forehead instead.

How blue were Sherlock's eyes?

How had he never noticed?

They were so clear. He leaned forward, hoping to be more intimately acquainted with them. They were almost the exact color of one of those really exotic oceans, where the exceedingly rich went on holiday.

"Beautiful," John mumbled.

"This is hardly the time for sarcasm," Sherlock reprimanded him, still dabbing at his head with all the authority of a mother hen. John tried to picture Sherlock adorned with the reds and varying shades of gold some poultry favored. He laughed.

"Perhaps we should call for a transport," Mrs. Hudson suggested. "He seems a tad hysterical."

"I'm fine," John insisted, trying to brush both of them away. They both provided him with such a pointed stare; he wondered why he had not felt the pang of a spear piercing his heart. "But perhaps a quick visit wouldn't hurt," he amended. "Just in case."

X

John had a very mild concussion, as Sherlock had diagnosed before the doctor had a chance. The doctor had not been pleased with Sherlock's abrupt attitude, as he listed off John's symptoms.

"In short," Sherlock finished as the doctor stood slack jawed, his penlight in one hand and a tongue depressor in the other, "a mild concussion."

"Well…yes…I suppose," the doctor sputtered, color rising to his cheeks, "are you a doctor?"

"No. I'm a librarian," Sherlock told him, using a tone of voice that suggested he thought his occupation went without mentioning.

"I would appreciate you keeping your bloody mouth shut for five minutes then," the doctor snapped, losing patience with Sherlock's eccentric ways, "and allow me to properly diagnose the patient." As he turned back to examining John, Sherlock made one final comment.

"The nerve of a health care professional using that type of language," Sherlock huffed as he stood close to John. The doctor glared briefly at Sherlock but continued with his inspection of John, measuring this inspection against John's displayed CT scan results.

"He does have a mild concussion," the doctor consented. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I recommend bed rest, ice where he knocked his noggin in twenty minute intervals every two hours, plenty of fluids, and something for pain."

"He does not require stitches?" Sherlock asked.

"No, the cut does not appear to be more than a scratch. Just keep it cleaned." John was only half listening to the doctor's orders, until the final aftercare order.

"Are you his boyfriend?" the doctor asked as he scribbled something into John's extensive file. In all his time spent in a foreign land, John had never had a head injury. Now he gets one in his own country. And at work no less! John felt a little mortified.

"No," they answered simultaneously. The doctor glanced between them for a moment.

"Are you quite sure? Because I thought for sure… never mind. He will need someone to monitor him for at least the next forty-eight hours." John dreaded calling his mother and figured Harry would not be an option, as her girlfriend had no idea where his sister was even located these days.

"I'll monitor him myself," Sherlock smoothed over easily. Before John could protest, the doctor released him to Sherlock's care.

"But Sherlock," John later protested, as the taller gentleman assisted him in leaving the hospital, the other man's name coming out as more a whine, "you don't have to do this." The hospital ordered John to ride to the front door in one of the overused manual wheelchairs. Sherlock was currently navigating him through crowded halls at a nice clip, seemingly heedless of other people, who had to swiftly sidestep to avoid being run over.

"And risk you calling your mother for help? Not a chance." A doctor fell into a supply closet, calling curses after Sherlock. John was fumbling for any excuse.

"I don't want you to see my flat," he said defiantly.

"Then I won't. You'll be going to mine." John's breath hitched in his throat at that prospect. Sherlock's flat?

"No, I can't do that either," John's voice came out as a mere whisper.

"And why," Sherlock demanded, as they swerved around a corner, now directly in line with the set of doors that would lead outside, "I shudder to ask, not?" John couldn't think of a justified answer. "Exactly. I'll have no more whining from my reluctant patient then." He promptly stopped in front of the doors, glancing behind them at the flustered middle-aged nurse who had failed to keep up. "I'll just hail a taxi then shall I?" he asked, stepping out into the chilly spring air.

It had only been a few hours since they had left work, but to John, it seemed a century of anxious waiting. The nurse was bustling around him, adjusting his jacket and "tsking" about Sherlock.

"Your boyfriend," she huffed as she straightened his collar unnecessarily, "is a fine piece of work." John ignored her comment. It truly did no good to deny the fact. Instead, he contemplated life as Sherlock's boyfriend briefly.

The doors slid open again, revealing a pink-cheeked Sherlock, his dark hair mussed from a slight breeze, his eyes alight with excitement.

"Right then," he nodded, "I'll take him from here."

"Have it your way then," the nurse said. Shakily, John rose out of the chair, Sherlock's arms providing him with support. He would have been fine if his supervisor had not felt the need to touch him.

The butterflies in John's stomach were performing a full Cirque De Soleil acrobatic routine as they walked to the waiting cab. He felt a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with his minor head wound and everything to do with the way his pulse jumped the more he thought about an intimate weekend with Sherlock.

With an air of finality, Sherlock slammed the door behind John before briskly walking to the other side and occupying the other half of the seat. The directions to his flat were related smartly, in his no-nonsense voice before he sat back, his sleeved arm just barely brushing John's.

"What about a change of clothes for this sleepover?" John inquired, trying not to examine the difference in body types, which would mean studying Sherlock's physique in detail. Instead, he glanced out the window. The quick movement of the city made him ill and he shut his eyes.

Sherlock brushed this excuse away too with, "I have some of Mycroft's old things. I'm sure they'll fit. If I let you back into your own flat, you'll take wise and lock me out."

John hadn't thought of that possibility, but didn't comment on this. "Fine," he answered, resignedly. His day was about as worse as it could get, the head trauma the icing on the cake. What was one weekend with his gorgeous boss?

X

**Author's End Note: **Coming soon, Chapter 006: 005 Mathematics & Natural Sciences

Small Rough Preview: And as Sherlock's slightly parted lips hovered just over John's, not quite touching but their breath mixing, he knew that magnets generally attracted.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: **Thanks for all the continued support on this story. It keeps me going!

**Notes about this chapter: **This chapter is actually just one-half of their weekend together. The Lovecraft reference is for the Sherlock Holmes games on the internet; I've been playing Sherlock Holmes: The Awakening pretty much religiously the last few weeks, trying to solve it without leaning too much on a walkthrough.

Hope no one is OOC of course. I only write them as I see them in my head, if that makes any sense.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Story title is still borrowed.

Where the Lines Overlap

Chapter 006: 005 Mathematics & Natural Sciences

John wasn't sure what he was expecting when they reached Sherlock's flat, but it was nothing like the reality of actually going there. The flat was in a slightly better neighborhood than John's, though he wasn't sure exactly how Sherlock could afford it.

As if sensing John's query, Sherlock answered, "Though my mother did not approve of my habits, she wouldn't have me living in total squalor either." John wasn't quite sure how to answer, so he settled for merely nodding.

It occurred to John that just borrowing Mycroft's old clothes wasn't quite reconciling the quandary of no overnight bag. "What about a toothbrush?" John asked, and then added silently _or clean underwear? _

"You can be quite prissy for a bachelor," Sherlock remarked offhandedly, as the cab stopped at the curb. "I have extra." Sherlock jumped out first, forgetting and slamming the heavy door in John's face. He pitched a few bills at the driver through the open window, not pausing to watch as they drifted down to his lap.

"Forgetting someone?" John asked as he rapped on the glass sharply. Sherlock rolled his eyes, muttering 'stupid, stupid!' before grasping the handle and releasing his guest from the cramped confines of the taxi. "That's better," John sighed as he hauled himself up from the squeaky seats. Sherlock offered his arm, but John used the doorframe instead, not wishing to appear any frailer than he already felt.

John caught the taxi driver's brief glance that seemed to ask, "Are you two that _sort _of couple?" He chose to disregard the look and concentrate instead on Sherlock.

"Sorry," the taller man apologized, "I'm used to coming home alone."

"Understandable," John supposed, "force of habit."

"Exactly." Sherlock leaned John against his taller frame, hurrying them up the steps into the lobby. John's stomach was on the brink of revolt, his cheeks flushed, and his pulse pounding in his ears. He could smell the barest hint of Sherlock's shampoo as he set John down on a bench beside the elevator.

Impatiently, Sherlock pressed the button and collapsed beside John for a second. When the elevator didn't chime within a matter of seconds, Sherlock took to pacing.

John's head felt so heavy. He leaned it against the wall for just a moment, his eyes still trained on his impetuous supervisor.

"Oh no you don't," Sherlock said, leaning over his charge, one firm hand reaching behind John's head to separate him from the wall.

"I was only resting for just a second," John protested, his hands reaching for Sherlock's chest, hoping to push him away.

"Sherlock? Is that you?" a placid female voice asked from the hallway behind him.

"Molly," Sherlock said, without turning around right away. Under the crook of Sherlock's arm, John could just make out a young woman standing in the hallway, clearly dressed to go out, and watching them inquisitively.

"And I see you have a…friend," she remarked, attempting to get a better look at John.

"This isn't what it looks like," Sherlock told her. John was beginning to wonder if Sherlock had fibbed about dating or relationships.

"He's my boss," John blurted out, realizing that fact was not going to help clarify things.

"Oh?"

Still cradling John's head, Sherlock moved his body from in front of John's, before answering carefully, "He was injured at work today. Head wound. Nasty business. I'm watching him for the weekend."

"I see," Molly said, though she fixed them each with a peculiar look. "Have fun then."

"Nice meeting you," John told her lamely. Once Molly was gone from the building, John addressed Sherlock again. "Who is she?"

"Girl who lives just down the hall from me." Frustrating answer. Typical Sherlock. John started to huff in protest at his supervisor's less than satisfactory answer. He never got the chance. Instead, Molly burst in through the front doors again.

"Oh, if you two are waiting for the elevator, it's out of service for the night."

"What do you mean 'out of service'?" Sherlock asked, incredulously.

"The evening desk supervisor is putting out signs on all floors. I had to trek down the stairs. The sign must have blown away," she told them as she glanced around the elevator area briefly. "Have a nice night anyway."

For a moment, John thought that steam might actually shoot from Sherlock's ears, about the same time smoke would pour from his nose. Sherlock released John's head, taking a deep breath, pressing steepled fingers to his face, pacing a minute or two.

"I can walk Sherlock," John told him, not wanting to cause any more problems.

"No, you don't need to walk," Sherlock shot back.

"Really, it is not a problem," John said, attempting to stand up. Sherlock pressed his shoulders down again, John's bottom colliding hard with the bench.

"You shouldn't have to in your condition."

"My condition?" John chuckled. "I have a minor head injury. I'm not pregnant." A smirk touched Sherlock's lips.

"Didn't think you were."

"So what gave it away?" John asked languidly. "My lack of swollen ankles? No cravings for strange food?"

"The fact that you lack breasts."

"Oh. Fair enough." He paused. "Sherlock, really, it was just a bump on the head. I can walk. What floor do you live on anyway?" John went to stand again. If he had gone home for the night, John would have thought nothing of trekking the two flights to his flat.

"Tenth." John sat down again.

"Tenth?" John wouldn't admit it if questioned, but he was perhaps a little afraid of heights.

"Be lucky the flats on thirteen were occupied. Stay here. There must be a supply lift somewhere. This was a hotel at some point. Why would there just be two working lifts here at the front?" he mumbled as he started down a back corridor. "And no resting your head against the wall," Sherlock instructed as he departed down the hallway.

Once Sherlock was out of sight, John did rest his head against the wall, just for a moment to collect his thoughts.

So far, nothing about Friday seemed to be working right. He would have almost thought the day to be a thirteenth. He had shut his eyes for just a fraction of a second, before he realized his mobile was buzzing crossly in his pocket. The screen flashed '_Beelzebub Calling.' _

The phone had come from Harry, John remembered, and that was how she referred to their mother. He chuckled briefly. Good thing his mother didn't see it. John contemplated pressing the red "End" button and ignoring her. But she would just continue to call, leaving longer, more convoluted voice messages.

Taking one last calming breath, John answered, "Yes Mum?"

"John, Darling! I've tried calling you three or four times already! I got a call from Mrs. Hudson that you had been hurt at work!" John held the phone inches away from his ear, lest he add an earache to his list of current physical pains. John regretted not having enough local friends to list as emergency contacts.

"Mum, I'm fine, honestly. It was just a bump on the head," John explained, his blue-grey eyes widening with astonishment as Sherlock pilfered the rolling office chair from the front desk. He covered the mouthpiece on the phone to ask, "What is that?" to Sherlock.

"Your transport," Sherlock said austerely. John uncovered the phone again, realizing his mother was still talking.

"What's what? Who else is there? Who are you staying with?" John couldn't get a word in edgewise.

"Who's that?" Sherlock mouthed at him.

"Mum," John mouthed back. Without warning, his boss reached over and plucked the phone from John's grasp.

"This is his supervisor," Sherlock told her, his rich voice thick with authority, "and I will be looking after John for the weekend. Goodbye." One large thumb pressed the 'end' button and he deposited John's phone into the recesses of his coat. "Now, we can proceed."

"You're going to push me down the hall in that?" John questioned, giving the chair a cagey once-over.

"Would you prefer me to carry you bridal style perhaps?" For an instant, John considered the possibility.

"No," John said stridently. He gingerly stood up and slid himself onto the wobbly seat of the chair, hoping that the ride to the elevator would not repeat the wild wheelchair ride in the hospital.

Fortunately, the ride was shorter than the previous one. Unfortunately, John arrived at the service elevator knowing how an insect on a fast moving vehicle felt.

The elevator ride itself wasn't a total loss. The machine was jerky and deafening, but they did reach the tenth floor without an unexpected incident. It was probably not used very often anymore. Sherlock pulled John to his feet, leaving the chair in the elevator.

"You're not going to return that?" he asked.

"No. Dave will find it eventually." The door shut a second later, blocking John's view. They made an awkward pair walking down the hall, Sherlock being considerably taller than John was. He tried not to think about how work would be after this weekend, as Sherlock unlocked his flat.

Sherlock's office had just been an extension of his apartment, John realized as they stepped in. Sherlock flipped the wall switch, illuminating the living room and kitchen combination. John was promptly assisted out of his coat, still gawking at the clutter, as Sherlock deposited the clothing across the back of the overstuffed loveseat.

There were books stacked up around the room, piled messily into shelves, and abandoned on tables. It resembled Mag's workroom in Cataloguing and Tech. John had assumed there would be books, of course, given their professions, but not a miniature library.

"Make yourself at home," Sherlock told him, idly waving a hand in the direction of the loveseat and accompanying chairs. "I'll make tea." John realized, as he sank into the cushions that Sherlock did not own a television set or radio. Just books.

"Tons of books," he muttered to himself, just before something chilly dropped in his lap, a cry of surprise leaving his lips.

"Ice, for your head," Sherlock told him. John tentatively touched the developing goose egg on his forehead, grimacing at the acute pain. He glanced around as he carefully held the ice pack against the swollen, blue and purple skin. There was a violin and accompanying bow lying discarded on an end table across the room.

"You play?" John asked, trying to see through the pack into the kitchen. Sherlock swore briefly and John heard the distinctive hiss of water on a hot surface.

"Yes. It helps me to think." There was another sharp word or two.

"Do you want some assistance?" John asked, wondering desperately what their entertainment would be for the remainder of the weekend. At the very least, John had a computer in his home. He surveyed the cramped room again, spying a closed laptop nearby.

"No," Sherlock admonished. "Everything is under control." Idly, John picked up the nearest book, glancing at the contents. What he saw made him blush, dropping the book beside him. It was a moment before he was brave enough to try a different volume. This one was an improvement and he settled in.

A few minutes later, Sherlock cleared his throat as a steaming cup of tea was held in front of John's nose. "That book not to your tastes John?" Sherlock questioned, sinking into the cushions beside him, their thighs nearly touching.

"This one?" John asked, blowing on the surface of his cup as he gestured toward the volume resting on his lap. The ice pack was nestled between John's outer thigh and the armrest.

"No, the other one." John flushed, realizing that he had not set the book down in the same state as he had picked it up.

"Well…er…" Sherlock was surveying his expressions with rapt attention, taking a quick sip from his delicate blue cup, heedless of the high temperature. "No," John finally stuttered out.

"Mine either," his boss commented, reaching for the impish novel and turning to one of the illustrated pages, before discarding the book on the end table beside him. "I felt the positions lacked creativity." He reached for the true crime novel John had been investigating. "A much better choice." John accidently gulped his tea, his throat and nose stinging, in his fluster from the book. "Careful John, it's hot."

"I realize that," John said, coughing and sputtering between words.

"Shall I read to you then? I don't think a computer monitor would be good for your eyes right now." Without actually waiting for confirmation, Sherlock began reading. John couldn't recall the last time someone had read aloud to him. He certainly couldn't recall his mother ever reading for Harry or himself.

The only thing he had ever seen her read was The Sun newspaper, or some similar gossip magazine. Sherlock's voice was soothing, though the subject was gruesome. John settled into the couch, alternating between drinking tea and holding the ice pack. There was only one drawback. Sometimes Sherlock forgot to read aloud and John had to remind him, particularly during important passages. The evening passed relatively quickly.

X

Later, Sherlock announced that he wanted a quick shower. "Be sure not to pass out," Sherlock reminded John brusquely. John didn't think there was any danger of that. Through ice and a regular pain killer regimen, his head was feeling cold and numb. "I'll show you where Mycroft's old things are."

John slowly followed Sherlock into his bedroom, expecting an organization disaster there as well, but was pleasantly surprised to find it was almost clutter free. Sherlock's bed was a queen-sized antique, covered in dark blue dressings. It looked quite inviting. John had been instructed to try to avoid a shower tonight, to give the blood a chance to coagulate.

"I kept this drawer, though I'm not sure why," Sherlock explained, crouching down in front of his dresser and tugging at the gold hardware on the bottom drawer. "I'll return shortly."

Reluctantly, John pawed through the outdated neon and prints, most likely Mycroft's clothing from… John guessed the 80s. He held a Wham! shirt to his chest. Yes, he decided, the 80s indeed. Why did Sherlock even have these clothes?

John asked his boss later, once he had found a pair of grey sweatpants and an ordinary, albeit used, black t-shirt.

"Some of our boxes were switched when we moved out. I got this box of discarded clothes that I was saving for handy blackmail, and he got a box of toys."

"I suppose he got the short end of the stick then," John commented with a wry smile.

"Yes. They tend to be more difficult to blackmail with." John tried not to notice, when he and Sherlock eventually resumed their places in the living room, how nicely the light blue pajama set clung to his boss' long-limbed frame.

John was aware he was fidgeting after a few minutes into a new chapter of the book Sherlock had been reading all afternoon. He couldn't help it.

"Would you rather read for a while?" Sherlock inquired, without looking up from the book, "Because I am afraid I cannot let you attempt anything else today."

"I can try," he shrugged. "Let's try a different book though." John stood up and walked over to examine the shelves carefully. He was fully aware of Sherlock's stare, but tried to ignore it and the budding lump in his throat from all the attention.

There were many different types of books, some John recognized from Sherlock's work at the library, and others he supposed were just interesting to his boss. Every volume John pulled off the shelf, Sherlock rejected.

"Alright then, what would you have me to read then?" John asked, rounding on his boss, after about the hundredth book had been discarded with some witty comment. Sherlock walked over to an opposite shelf and selected a volume of Lovecraft Tales.

It stuck John that somewhere in that sometimes-chilly exterior Sherlock was only human after all. The Lovecraft Tales were his way of suggesting ghost stories before bed, like any childhood sleepover.

"Not too terrifying for you?" Sherlock asked.

"No, of course not," John scoffed as he settled onto the loveseat again. He had expected Sherlock to reclaim his chair from earlier, but the tall librarian grabbed a seat beside him.

"Mycroft used to read these to me as a child." John tried to picture Mycroft and Sherlock much younger, but the image fuzzy. "Terrified me." John did let out an indignant snort, because 'Sherlock' and 'terrified' did not belong in the same sentence.

"Any particular tale you want to avoid then?"

"No. That was years ago." John started with "At the Mountains of Madness." Halfway through the tale, he was growing aware of the proximity of Sherlock's head over his shoulder, his hot breath tickling John's ear, the nearness of his chest. John's voice faltered. It was just like his first day of work all over again.

"Uh, Sherlock?"

"Hm?" Sherlock leaned back, reaching for his tea on the end table. Perhaps his boss was one of those individuals who had no concept of personal space. Or was he intentionally sitting too close to John?

Was it possible that his boss might harbor some feelings for- John didn't allow himself to finish that thought as he yawned. Glancing at a clock on the wall while reaching for his own cup of tea, John realized it was quite late.

"Is that clock correct?"

"Yes. You need to be headed off to bed." John tried not to feel like a child for a moment, being made to go to bed early and miss all the midnight fun.

"And you're going to stay up?"

"I need to know the end of that tale."

"But I thought you had already read it?"

"Years ago." John rolled his eyes before stifling another sudden yawn.

"At any rate, the doctor did say I needed to get plenty of rest." He waited for Sherlock to take the hint. Sherlock studied him over the rim of the teacup. John sighed; he supposed he would have to spell it out. "Where am I sleeping?"

"My room. The bed has more support." In one swift motion, Sherlock was up again, crossing the room quickly. John trailed along behind him.

By the time he reached Sherlock's room, the other man had already turned on a bedside lamp, illuminating the space in warm tones.

"Sleep well," John yawned. Sherlock touched his shoulder, nodded briefly, and departed. John crawled under the soft duvet, finally alone with his thoughts. Being alone this long with Sherlock was different than he had previously imagined. It was comforting… His thoughts drifted lazily to the possibility of future weekends together, for a few minutes and before long, he was asleep.

X

Sherlock wasn't tired just yet, his mind racing.

John had moved right into his life, so easily. Not only was his office now always maintained, but also he looked forward to work because Watson would be there. John had met and exceeded all Sherlock's expectations, and now Sherlock wasn't sure that he could go without.

He had not realized this fact until this morning, when John was filling in for Mrs. Hudson's girl, just what a presence his assistant had. Sherlock's heart had stopped, seeing his subordinate lifeless on the floor, blood beginning to drip down his almost translucent face.

He couldn't ignore the unprofessional attraction he felt for John, though he tried for a few minutes with Lovecraft's tale. It wasn't the same now without John's voice. Sherlock wasn't adept at restraint; he wanted to rush into his bedroom and…what exactly?

Mycroft had warned him about attachment to a coworker at their last Sunday meeting. Sherlock wondered if it was based on personal experience.

John did seem to show some signs of attraction as well though, Sherlock observed, as they had spent the afternoon and evening together. He had noted John's increased breathing and occasional blush.

Under the guise of being a good caretaker, Sherlock crept to his room an hour later to check on Watson. From the dark doorway, he had not been able to tell for sure if John was breathing. He moved closer. John's presence was magnetic.

John was sleeping peacefully, the bruise and cut from earlier hidden in the near darkness. Without thoroughly planning his actions, Sherlock found himself beside John's sleeping frame, halfway on the bed.

It was impossible for Sherlock not to notice that John's lips were slightly parted with the gentle intake of breath. He wondered what it would be like to kiss those thin lips every morning, his body moving ever closer to John. At this range, Sherlock realized, he could steal a quick kiss, nothing John would know about, to satisfy his burgeoning curiosity for the night.

And as Sherlock's slightly parted lips hovered just over John's, not quite touching but their breath mixing, he knew that magnets generally attracted.

That is, until John awoke, his stone grey and blue-mixed eyes full of confusion and the lingering dredges of sleep. "Sherlock?" he asked. John was scared for just a moment that it had been a Cthulhu after all.

"Hm?" the other man questioned, his gaze never leaving his charge's face.

"What are you doing?" It took Sherlock's brain a few seconds to respond.

"What am I doing? What are you doing?"

"Me? You're the one leaning over me in the middle of the night like some sort of…hovering…thing." Sherlock had to come up with a better excuse fast.

"I was just checking the status of your breathing," he lied easily, sinking his full weight onto the bed.

"Checking the status of my breathing huh? That's a new one. I'm no doctor, Sherlock, but that doesn't seem like the correct procedure."

"It's a new one," Sherlock continued, "from the States. You won't have heard of it."

"Really? You're going with that excuse. A new American procedure? Because it really seemed like you were going to kiss me, and I'm fairly sure the kiss has been around a lot longer than North America. The movie "Princess Bride" says something about it."

"No, they mention the invention of the kiss, not the year," Sherlock corrected, settling in beside John, stretching his long, athletic legs out on the duvet.

"Whatever," John mumbled, rubbing a weary hand over his face. "Can I go back to sleep now?" Sherlock didn't answer. "I'll take that as a 'yes' then."

In that weightless moment, when one is almost asleep, Sherlock striking up a conversation again, dragged John back to full awareness with a sudden question.

"Who was your favorite character?"

"What do you mean?" John asked suspiciously, fully preparing for an argument. The bed creaked slightly as Sherlock rolled over on his side to face John in the semi-darkness.

"Who was your favorite character?" John sighed, torn between wanting to banter with Sherlock and desperately wanting to sleep the remainder of Friday off.

"Honestly?" John asked.

"Honestly." He considered for a moment, worrying is bottom lip.

"I don't know. Uh, Princess Buttercup I suppose." Sherlock made a noise in his throat, something between a grunt and a laugh. "Well, if you're going to act like that," John told him irritably, drawing the duvet over his shoulders a little more, and staring hard at the wall. "Who's your favorite character then?"

"Why Buttercup?" Sherlock demanded. John wanted to slap his boss first and himself second. It was a fair question though.

"Because she's only human." Sherlock made a noise again, but John ignored him and continued with his explanation. "She loved Westley, but reality set in and she did what many other people would do. She needed security, not a memory. Real life. Even making that decision, she still got her happy ending." Sherlock was silent once more. "I suppose you'll tell me your favorite character is Westley or something." John waited for a response, a snide comeback, something. "Or not."

"Miracle Max," Sherlock finally said.

"Max? Really? Why?"

"Because, he has the best lines." John conceded, attempting a sleepy imitation of Billy Crystal.

"Well, see you in the morning," John said, yawning freely and thinking that his boss would return to his sitting room. The covers moved a second later and John felt added body heat.

"Yes, in the morning," Sherlock agreed.

"Um, what exactly are you doing?" John questioned, now fully awake and dually aware of Sherlock's close proximity.

"Going to bed," his boss answered pointedly.

"In here?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Again, with all the questions," Sherlock huffed. "To keep an eye on you." John felt alarm growing in the pit of his stomach, as things like 'morning breath' or 'messy hair' rushed through his mind. He didn't want Sherlock to see him asleep!

"An eye huh? With that new American procedure?" John added wickedly, hoping to keep the panic from his voice with a little teasing. Sherlock didn't say anything. For a long time, John lay stiffly under the covers, hoping he wouldn't shift around too much in the middle of the night.

Just before he drifted off to sleep again, he considered his boss' answer to the movie question. Miracle Max was a realist too. Sherlock had been on the same page, just different characters.

X

**Author's End Note: **Do you think John will move around in the middle of the night? *waggles eyebrows mischievously*


	7. Chapter 7 Part 1

**Author's Note: **Has everyone had a nice Thanksgiving? If you celebrate? If not, well I hope all is well regardless, in these holiday times with Christmas and whatnot coming up.

Thank you so much for all the continued support, as it really does keep me going through the hardest parts of the plot. So give yourselves a big pat on the back!

I know I always plan to have a new chapter up, way before I actually do. This one gave me a number of problems, actually. I'm not sure why really. So, it is in two parts. I have let a good friend of mine look over it and offer me her advice, which I have taken in almost every aspect, while saving one more thing for the second part that she suggested. Thank you so much!

I hope no one is out of character and apologize profusely if they are. How they appear in my head and how they end up in chapters are two different things.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the characters or the title. No money is made from this.

Where the Lines Overlap

Chapter 007: 006 Technology and Applied Science – Part One

John felt as if he had been asleep only a few minutes when something heavy beside him moved. His mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton balls, his tongue fuzzy again. He licked his lips, hoping the feeling would leave him.

The thing beside him moved again. Panic clenched the pit of John's stomach, as he realized just who was in bed with him. Slowly, he opened one eye and then the other. Long fingers gently stroked his stomach in lingering, languid caresses. The muscles there reacted subtly beneath the thin material of the lent shirt.

Now John was torn between enjoying the sensation of being touched so tenderly and jumping from bed because Sherlock was still his boss after all. And come Monday morning, they would still be supervisor and assistant. John wondered if Sherlock knew if he was awake and was just goading him on because his boss' grasp grew tighter.

John was now resting firmly in Sherlock's arms, the other man's chest acting as a wall. He could feel Sherlock breathing, probably hear his heartbeat if John quieted his own breathing for just a few seconds.

_This isn't so bad, _John thought to himself, a smile creeping across his face. _I am lying in bed with my gorgeous boss after all. _He was aware that his own hands were resting on Sherlock's arms and their legs tangled together like vines. He was more on Sherlock's side of the bed than he had been. John didn't recall removing around in the night.

But then, one of the basest of all functions struck John at the most inopportune time. He was afraid to shift, to get out of the bed and alleviate the pressure building in his bladder, afraid he would wake Sherlock. John waited a few minutes, hoping the feeling would pass. _Oh no. I don't want to get up. _But he had to.

As carefully as he could, John slipped out of Sherlock's arms, refilling the space with a pillow. Sherlock still appeared to be asleep, his features younger in the gritty filtered light from the one window as his arms wrapped tighter around the giving material. John really hated to leave suddenly quite jealous of the pillow, hated to depart for even a few minutes, but it was becoming urgent.

On his way into the bathroom, John took no notice of his reflection in the mirror the first time he passed. After relieving himself and heading for the sink, John's reflection caught up to him. He clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from crying out.

"I look like a horror film extra," he moaned, touching the tender spot on his forehead. It was a little smaller than a golf ball and as purple as a grape. The cut on his head did not help this imagery, adding a slash of red where it was hardly necessary.

"Not quite," Sherlock yawned beside him. John jumped in surprise, as he had not heard his boss even get out of bed. The taller man rubbed at his dark curls absently, brushing them back from his forehead. "I've witnessed ghastlier wounds than yours."

"Oh hush," John told him, wondering how long he was going to look like a George Romero extra. The wound certainly would not clear up before Monday morning. Everyone would already be staring at him.

"I think it gives you character," Sherlock said, pushing past John into the bathroom.

"I didn't want this character." Ignoring him, Sherlock opened the medicine cupboard, grabbing a few first aid supplies.

"Quit being such a baby."

"I am _not_ being a baby," John whined, knowing that he sure sounded like one. Sherlock wiped at John's wound, smirking each time his charge winced.

"Sensitive?"

"No. I quite like lemon juice rubbed in my wounds, thanks," John answered smartly, fixing the taller man with a sardonic look. Sherlock merely continued his work, though he 'tsked' a few times for good measure.

"Try to help someone out and this is how they repay you," Sherlock smirked. John's head had stopped burning for the time being. Then they were both silent, Sherlock staring down at John. Their faces were so close together.

John wondered what it would be like to close the gap, to press his lips to Sherlock's, to embrace. Without meaning to, he leaned his head in.

Unfortunately, the door buzzed at exactly the same moment. _Damn, _John thought. Sherlock moved past him, unfazed that something had been starting between them.

"Who could that possibly be at this hour?" Sherlock mumbled. John trailed behind him, a myriad of unfavorable possibilities clouding his mind. None of the possibilities matched the person standing in the doorway.

"Mycroft?" they said at the same time, for Sherlock's older brother was standing in the doorway, looking less than pleased to be calling on them.

"Happy to see you as well," he intoned. "May I?" John thought for a moment that Sherlock would deny his brother entry. However, after a slight hesitation Mycroft walked past them and into the flat.

Sherlock slammed the door and spun on his heel to confront his older brother. "You do not usually grace me with your pleasure until tomorrow. Why?"

Mycroft chuckled, not answering his brother's statement as he inspected the state of the flat. John was feeling very uncomfortable, caught in a power struggle that he did not fully understand.

"That was before I received a call from Mrs. Hudson, that you are harboring your assistant in your flat. Care to elaborate?" Mycroft turned, spotting Watson. "Ah, John, we meet again."

Sherlock rounded on John. "You've met?"

"Well, yes, a while back bu-"

"Trouble in paradise?" Mycroft asked as he strolled around the flat, examining things at random. He picked up the book that Sherlock had discarded previously, flipping through the pages, completely unfazed by the subject. "Hm, I thought that book lacked something too."

"When did you meet John?" Sherlock was questioning Mycroft, but still staring at Watson.

"Monday."

"And you said nothing to me John?"

"Well…" Sherlock was waiting for answer. "I didn't think it was quite so important."

"Wasn't important?" Sherlock laughed bitterly, spinning around to face his brother again. "Wasn't important, he tells me. Oh, that's rich." He strode over to Mycroft, entering his brother's personal space. "And you, actively seeking out my assistant? To keep tabs on me?" He pushed past his brother, retrieved his violin, and headed for the bedroom, slamming the door behind him with finality.

Mycroft sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "He can be such a child sometimes. Well, tea John? I'm afraid this might take some time to blow over."

"Okay," John mumbled, feeling at a loss as to why it happened in the first place and unable to think of something else with which to occupy his time. It wasn't as if he and Sherlock were dating, was it? But then it struck John that some of the trouble lay in the nature of their relationship.

Perhaps to Sherlock, they were somewhat of an item. John rather wished they were, officially. His boss wasn't the best at filling in blanks. He just seemed to jump from one point to another, with no explanation for how he ended up there.

Was Sherlock really upset that John had not been introduced to his family in the proper order, as in after a date or two? It seemed so silly; however, it did seem to fit the reaction in an odd sort of way.

"I am afraid he has always been this way. You must be very special indeed John Hamish Watson, to have affected him so." Mycroft set about making breakfast tea with practiced ease. "I do believe he would have not been so cross, if he did not harbor feelings for you."

"A crush?" John asked, bewildered. But his boss never seemed to show any affection. He didn't even praise John for a job well done usually. Mycroft nodded, knowingly.

"There's only one other person, before you arrived, that has caused him to act so. He will not permit me to say her name in front of him however, so she is only known as _'that _woman.'"

"Her name wasn't Mags was it?" Mycroft laughed heartily.

"No, I'm afraid not." He leaned in too close for John's liking. "Her name was Irene Adler. Alas, something tragic happened to her when they were at university." He 'tsked' a few times. John tried to imagine a special woman in Sherlock's life, but the picture would not come to him.

"In about an hour, he will waltz out as if nothing happened. Just watch. In the mean time, you can fill me in on anything I might have missed. Starting with that ghastly head wound. Mrs. Hudson was still quite nauseous when I asked her." Mycroft served the tea, as John explained what happened exactly, feeling a little foolish about the whole incident.

Mycroft asked few questions and seemed content to listen with an interested expression. Every now and again, they would hear some type of noise from Sherlock's bedroom; sometimes the angry sound of a violin being played badly, other times just a thump.

John did keep some details to himself, like the delicious wakeup call he received from Sherlock.

"I did stop by, as a matter of fact, to show you something that seems to be circulating on the internet," Mycroft told John, digging his mobile out of his suit jacket pocket.

"What might that be?" he asked, leaning forward expectantly.

"A phone John Watson," Mycroft told him, irritatingly enough.

"I'm aware of that. I was referring to what you wanted to show me."

"Well, you are today's topic of interest on YouTube apparently."

"What?" John nearly jumped out of his chair.

"See for yourself." Mycroft handed his mobile over, as it was playing a video of John's less than graceful fall. He groaned, returning the device back to Mycroft. He didn't know who had filmed it. Now it was immortalized on the web and there was nothing he could do about it.

"You have about a million views however," Mycroft encouraged him.

"About a million more than I wanted."

"Oh cheer up. It will only go viral for a week. I am confident you will live through it," Mycroft chuckled, sipping at his tea.

"And how many of that million are from you?"

"Only a couple hundred I suppose. Had to share with everyone at work, you know, how my brother's boyfriend is famous." John rested his forehead on the table for a few minutes of retrospection and to avoid Mycroft's amused face.

Exactly as Mycroft had predicted, Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, fully dressed and much calmer than before.

"Care to join us?" Mycroft asked as Sherlock grabbed a teacup with a mismatched saucer from the cupboard and poured himself a cup.

"Not particularly, but seeing as how you commandeered my guest, I suppose I have no choice," Sherlock told his brother with noted indifference. John wondered what was going on in that complicated brain of Sherlock's.

"Oh come now. You have other options. You could read one of the many books that litter this…flat."

"Read them all," Sherlock quipped, taking a sip of his tea and grabbing the chair between Watson and Mycroft.

"You could surf the net for porn." John nearly spit his tea down the front of his borrowed nightclothes, hastily grabbing a napkin to sponge his face. Sherlock, however, surveyed his brother coolly.

"Not my, cup of tea, so to say." Mycroft cocked an eyebrow.

"Clever wordplay. Alright. You could sleep."

"Just had about nine hours of sleep, thank you."

"Nine whole hours? My, John is special, isn't he?" They both glanced at Watson, who stirred his tea absently and hoped that he wasn't blushing. "I know! You could play us something on your violin. All those years of lessons have not gone to waste, I suppose."

"Boring," Sherlock answered, nearly cutting Mycroft's sentence off with his refusal.

"Then I suppose you are out of options. John and I were just discussing your favorite subject: you."

"Really? Anything good?"

"Many good things, I assure you."

"Well that's promising," Sherlock answered, sarcasm dripping from every word.

"Oh believe me. It was."

"Did you tell him anything interesting John?" Sherlock asked.

"Well-he-well-asked-um-"Instead of meeting Sherlock's eyes, John fiddled with his tea cup instead. "We were discussing what happened yesterday, to me."

"Oh?"

"Yes, it was most interesting," Mycroft interjected. "Really Sherlock, come now, you are behaving like a child. This is not good form."

"Bah," Sherlock huffed. Mycroft 'tsked' a few times.

"And only giving me short answers too. I know you love the sound of your own voice." Sherlock did not rise to Mycroft's rouse. "Well, my time is valuable and I must be going." Mycroft eased himself away from the table. "Going to show me out, dear brother?"

"You know where the door is," Sherlock told him.

"Another time then. John?" Watson stood up from the table and followed Mycroft into the sitting room, where the slightly older man retrieved his cane and shrugged into his coat. John waited awkwardly, hoping that Mycroft would say something. "This was a very enlightening morning," he finally said as he paused at the door handle.

"Yeah," John agreed, wondering if Sherlock was listening in. He suspected his boss was.

"I always wondered where those clothes of mine disappeared to," Mycroft chuckled.

"How did you-"

"Know? You could say a family trait, for deducing some things. They suit you better."

"Thanks I suppose."

"I think everything will be alright now. Ta."

"Goodbye." John shut and locked the door behind Mycroft, trying to puzzle out what the visit really meant. As he walked past the kitchen, Sherlock was still seated at the small table, holding his tea and staring at the wall. "I'm going to get dressed now," he told his boss.

Sherlock didn't seem to hear him and John wondered if he was still upset. _I will sort this out when I get back in a few minutes. _John cleaned himself up, seeing a minor head wound as no reason to ignore brushing his teeth or wearing proper day clothes. He dug a pair of blue jeans from the drawer with another plain t-shirt.

As he was pulling the soft t-shirt over his head, John felt someone standing behind him. "What, Sherlock?" he asked, turning around.

Sherlock didn't say a word, just studied John's face for a second before leaning in, closing his eyes, and firmly pressing his lips down on his assistant's. It was such an unexpected gesture that John didn't react for a few seconds.

He would have expected Sherlock's mouth to be cold, unyielding, and cruel. Instead, his lips were supple as they captured John's; silky and tasting faintly of the tea blend he had been drinking with a lingering trace of cigarette smoke. Up close, John could see Sherlock's smooth fair skin and his long, dark eyelashes.

_My goodness, _John thought as he closed his eyes and gave into the kiss, _he's very handsome isn't he? _And then, John couldn't think, as Sherlock moved his lips very gently, yielding and alternatively taking.

John could feel something unfurling in the pit of his stomach, the same feeling one got riding in an elevator that stops too fast or riding a rollercoaster down the biggest hill. He liked that feeling.

One of Sherlock's hands reached around John's neck, stroking the vulnerable flesh there, causing John to moan slightly into their kiss. His tongue slipped lightly between John's lips, soft and searching. John's own tongue curled up to meet Sherlock's, stroking the slick underside with the tip.

Now something was starting to uncurl below John's waistline, something that would grow into a dull ache, just begging to be stroked tenderly. At least, until Sherlock's forehead brushed the raw spot on John's noggin.

The kiss was broken as John cried "Ow!" and reached between them in an effort to soothe the hurt. He tried not to notice how cold and damp his lips were without Sherlock pressed against them.

John wasn't sure if he expected Sherlock to be cross with him, for breaking off such an unexpected and intimate moment. He avoided his boss' heavy gaze for a few seconds as he waited for the pain to subside. Sherlock, however, was chuckling lowly.

"Perhaps I should have tried that when your forehead wasn't the size of a grapefruit?" Sherlock asked. He didn't sound upset. Instead, John could see traces of amusement in those usually cold eyes.

"It's the size of a grapefruit?" John asked, panicking, as he wondered how it could have gotten so much worse in just a few hours. He pushed past Sherlock into the bathroom again and then felt more than a little foolish. There was no change in the condition. John knew that he was just avoiding bringing up the kiss.

Should he bring it up? Up until nearly twenty-something hours ago, Sherlock had just been his boss. But now John wasn't sure. John had spent the night after all, been cared for by Sherlock, and now had been kissed. He wasn't complaining about the kiss though.

"John," Sherlock started from the doorway, "what did my brother come to visit you about?" Dazed, John replied automatically as he tried to see exactly how his forehead looked like a grapefruit when it was only a golf ball.

"Oh, just to meet me, see how I was…" He dropped off, realizing what he was doing. _What a clever trick! _John thought bitterly. _Kissing me, distracting me into telling him what he wanted to know! _

"See how you were what-John?"

"Oh no." Feeling trapped in the bathroom, John tried to duck around Sherlock, to escape to the freedom of the sitting room. "No no."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock inquired as he stalked after his assistant.

"I mean that I'm not getting stuck between brothers' squabbles."

"It's not a squabble."

"Oh really?" John asked as he rounded on Sherlock in the connector from the bedroom to the kitchen and dining area.

"No. It's a war."

"War. Squabble. Battle. I will not be a part of it. And you, using that kiss, to try and-" John made a frustrated sound and stomped over to the couch, throwing himself down in the cushions. Sherlock was right on his heels.

"To try and what?" Sherlock demanded.

John, however, was onto his boss' game and refused to answer. In fact, he stretched out, rolling over on his side, staring resolutely at the slightly worn upholstery. He shut his eyes, to block out the pattern.

"Behave like a child then John." John nearly pointed out that Sherlock was the one behaving like a child today. But he remained silent as Sherlock stalked off. "I am a patient man. I will wait." He plopped down into one of the nearest armchairs, with his violin.

A few discordant chords later and John had finally had enough.

"You, patient?" He laughed, but did not roll over. "Honestly, I believe you are just a child wrapped in a man-sized body."

Sherlock was persistent, however, ignoring all of John's witticisms. "I will ask you one more time. To try and obtain what from you exactly?"

"Get information from me. I thought you were kissing me because-" He groaned again, his head throbbing. Sherlock didn't deny what he had done. But he didn't seem gleeful either. John wasn't sure if that irritated him or not. He tried to regain control of his emotions. "I thought you were kissing me because you liked me."

There, the words were hanging in the air and there was no way to take them back now. John plunged on ahead.

X

**Author's End Note: **As always, I want to read your thoughts. I get quite excited opening my email with your responses. As I said above, the next bit might change the rating; I just need to know your thoughts on such a big change.

I apologize again for it being so late as well…


	8. Chapter 7 Part 2

**Author's Note: ** Thank you so much for all the wonderful feedback! I am super grateful and honored that you are enjoying the story so much thus far!

In the meantime, there is no limit to your imagination as to how they skipped breakfast and were late having lunch ;)

This chapter may not be as long as some the others, because it is just the other half of the previous one, however it will sum up their weekend (sorta), their relationship (sorta), and set the scene for things to come (err…mostly). Because there is something brewing in the background.

Sorry if anyone is OOC. I apologize if they are and ask that you please let me know so that I can adjust the chapter if necessary. How they appear in my head and how they translate to document can be very different things.

I have also taken some liberties with their families.

Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Only borrowing.

Where the Lines Overlap

Chapter 007: 006 Technology and Applied Science – Part Two

Sherlock blinked at John's sudden outburst and John felt he had no choice but to continue with his speech.

"I'm so stupid. It was just a ploy so that I would tell you what Mycroft and I discussed. Well, here you go," said John throwing up his hands, "he said that you've changed just from being around me. That's all his visit Monday was about. He wanted to meet the man that was 'influencing' his little brother.

"But I tried not to give anything away. I attempted to keep you as coldhearted as always, so that your brother wouldn't have something about your possible tender nature to hold over your head. But now I see that you are actually just coldhearted," John snapped, aware that he was sounding like a bad pop song but not caring enough to stop. "I was just stupid to think you could fall in love with someone like me."

He wiped at his eyes, not venturing to look at Sherlock. He hoped it was just sweat or blood crawling down his face. Anything but tears. John had not cried on his first day of work and he would not cry now.

"Are you quite finished?" Sherlock asked; his tone was perplexingly bemused. John wasn't sure if he wanted to kiss Sherlock for not yelling back or slug him for many reasons he didn't quite understand.

"Yes," John huffed, feeling slightly affronted that his rant was met with such apparent amusement.

"Good. Because I wasn't quite finished with you." Before John could protest or begin ranting again, Sherlock's lanky body melded against his own, stockier frame, their lips connecting again in a heated kiss. Sherlock was careful to avoid John's wound this time.

But John's anger was not to be abated by fiery kisses or the delightful invasion of his personal space. He had to fight hard against the tongue that was sliding over his bottom lip and the hand that was leisurely creeping under his shirt.

"Sherlock," John panted, placing one hand firmly on his boss' toned chest. Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh, removing the balmy hand that had previously been under John's shirt, and running it instead through his own coiled hair.

"What now?" he cried, his pale lips made cherry-hued by the attention paid investigating John's mouth intimately. For a moment, John searched Sherlock's eyes, as if that would allow him to see inside of his boss' brain. Provide him with some grand clue as to the train of thought Sherlock seemed to follow.

John chose his words carefully. "I want to know-" He paused. "No. I need to know," he decided, "where I stand with you. Once and for all." Sherlock did not answer immediately, but he didn't move away either.

"I should have thought it obvious," Sherlock told him, in that annoying matter-of-fact manner he seemed to venerate.

"Sherlock," John sighed, "nothing is obvious with you."

"This should be." Sherlock tilted his head again in John's direction, teasing his assistant by lightly brushing his lips against the other man's at first in a titillating gesture, then alternating the pressure between unyielding and understated. "If I can kiss you with that goose egg on your forehead then it should be no problem to kiss you any other time."

"Then, we're an item?" They had both denied the word 'boyfriend' to the doctor. But the word did sound just a trifle juvenile to John's ears. Knowing some of the ways that Sherlock and Mycroft viewed things, they did tend to look only at the literal sometimes. The incident with the doctor had been before the events of last night and now.

"Yes John. You are, at the risk of sounding clichéd, exactly the type of person I'm falling for." A chaste kiss this time to the lips, then a line of sloppy caresses down John's neck to the collar of his shirt, each more lingering than the last as Sherlock nibbled at the delicate skin.

"And the business with Mycroft?" Only in the movies did the main character abandon his or herself to reckless passion without resolving all the problems. John needed to know, before things went too far, before he invested too much.

"Already forgotten." Sherlock's hand was crawling under John's shirt again, but his assistant stopped him once more. "John," he growled.

"Next time," John said, his tone serious, "just ask me if you want to know something." Best to lay the ground rules now.

"Don't jump to conclusions without all of the facts," answered Sherlock, burying his aquiline nose in the crook of John's neck, just resting there, feeling the other man's pulse.

"Jump to conclusions?"

"Yes. I distinctly recall that you were the one who accused me of using kissing as a war tactic."

John sat up very quickly, pushing away from Sherlock again, feeling wintry from the loss of Sherlock's warm hand under his shirt and the comfortable presence of his weight. "You didn't deny it either," he said softly.

"I certainly didn't confirm it," Sherlock objected. "If I had thought of something that brilliant, I would certainly own up to it. I was merely curious; to be sure that Mycroft had not threatened or propositioned you in any way."

"I took your silence as an admittance of guilt."

"So you assumed."

"Yes. But now you tell me I was supposed to just assume that we're…" John searched for the word to describe what was supposed to be their situation. "Together. There is no winning with you, is there Sherlock?" John could feel aggravation slithering up on him again. He moved as far away as the couch would allow, feeling wholly out of sorts again.

"By the same token, there is none with you either," Sherlock told him. John was torn between wanting to return to the safety of his flat and wanting to resume kissing Sherlock. This seemed to be such a trivial argument when he knew they both had some type of attraction to one another.

Yet, John couldn't help but feel that he still was part of a power struggle that started long before he ever met the Holmes brothers. He shut his eyes, resting his head against the back of the loveseat. He wanted to end this struggle, to return to where things were just starting to heat up.

Considered the past few weeks and Sherlock's behavior towards them, John's own thoughts with Mycroft this morning, there was undeniably something between himself and his boss. Sherlock probably had already forgotten the matter with Mycroft and was just kissing John.

And to be honest, John had not told Sherlock when he should have probably done so. Just because Sherlock had not asked, though he probably knew somehow that Mycroft had come to their workplace last week, didn't mean that John shouldn't have said something. _I was in the wrong on that account. I guess my guilt was getting the better of me just now._ _I did bring it up after all, when Sherlock had seemed to forget it. You just had to pick, didn't you Watson, old boy? You couldn't leave well enough alone. _

He heard a far off buzzing and hoped it wasn't his head. _I owe Sherlock an apology, at least for that part of my outburst._ Because Sherlock was not the type to apologize, John realized. Could he live with that quality? _I'm thinking too far into the future. I need to fix now before we see how far things go._ "I'm sorry," he mumbled, not realizing that Sherlock was no longer beside him.

X

John certainly didn't mean to doze off. He wasn't quite asleep, but he wasn't fully awake, caught between worlds in a foggy haze.

Someone was brusquely shaking him by the shoulder. The motion felt like a repeat of the day before. John had the awful thought that perhaps he was being made to go back, to pull a "Groundhog's Day" and relive the same day repeatedly until he finally learned his lesson, whatever it was.

Unwittingly, his arm lashed out, striking of its own accord and meeting solid flesh with an audible 'pop.' Blearily, John opened his eyes just in time to see Sherlock looking a little bewildered, his ordinarily pale cheek now a mottled pink roughly in the shape of John's hand. Long fingers reached up to trace the area.

"That will instruct me not to stand so close again when waking you up John."

"I am so sorry, Sherlock," John gasped, rising too quickly to help, feeling dizzy.

"Honestly, I can't leave you five minutes or you fall asleep."

"I was asleep?" John asked. But he had only shut his eyes. Or was that more of the Holmes dry humor?

"Yes. I left to answer a call from Mrs. Hudson and thought you had passed out." Sherlock was worried? John felt himself warm again. No, Sherlock was not wholly cold hearted and John had been wrong to make such sweeping assumptions, so afraid to allow himself feelings for this man standing in front of him.

"You," he said pointing at Sherlock, "were worried about me?" John inquired with a smile as he pointed back at himself.

"Don't tell me you did that on purpose," Sherlock snapped.

The smile disappeared from John's face for a moment, as he answered seriously, "No, I was trying to think of how to say sorry actually." The briefest expression of relief passed over Sherlock's face.

"Never frighten me like that again John," Sherlock lectured, sounding almost parental in his delivery.

"So you were worried," John pointed out, unable to hide his satisfaction. It seemed that Sherlock was at least concerned with John's physical well-being. A step in the right direction to caring about the spirit within the fleshy vessel.

"Of course. I can't have you dying in my flat, too complicated." Sherlock was smirking as well, a hopeful sign that he was only jesting, while he sat back down.

"So if I can't die in your flat, what can I do?" asked John, his voice taking on a more seductive quality.

"I can think of a few things."

"Such as?"

"Putting aside our earlier squabble for once. I do believe that you seek out drama more than a girl."

"If you had stuck around another second, you would have heard my apology the first time. I guess this time I'll just have to show you." John leaned over and initiated the kiss this time.

"Accepted," said Sherlock, breathlessly, once they had finally broken apart as inhalation had become essential. "And that's something I allow more of in my flat."

"Oh? Anything else?" And this time, Sherlock didn't need words to confirm his return answer.

X

Later, once stray articles of clothing had been retrieved and furniture rearranged, Sherlock and John were sitting down to a late lunch. John felt chuffed, with no need to speak as they ate lunch quietly.

He finally felt as if the librarian had accepted him, both as more than a coworker and a friend. He looked up and smiled at Sherlock, feeling blush spreading across his face at what had just occurred all over the sitting room.

Head wound? What head wound?

John was feeling brilliant!

For now, at least.

He did consider what life would be like Monday, returning to work. Would Mags give him a hard time? Would it show? Would they tell anyone? What about Mrs. Hudson?

However, John suspected that the head librarian knew more, perhaps, than she let on.

And what about his mother? She seemed as well connected as Mycroft. And Mycroft…though John suspected that Sherlock's older brother didn't miss a thing either, when it came to his younger sibling.

"Sherlock?" he asked.

"Hm?" His…boyfriend?...looked up. It was so strange to say now, when they had denied it earlier this weekend because he wasn't sure where he stood with the librarian. Boyfriend just didn't seem to be the appropriate word. Partner?

"What's going to happen Monday?"

"I'm not a fortune teller," Sherlock told him succinctly.

"I know that," John huffed. "I meant, what are we going to tell people?"

"About, what exactly?"

"Well…about what's happened between us. And about my head injury."

"They'll have seen the video by now, surely."

"Video? You know about the video. For how long?" John asked, feeling a nervous sweat break out over his skin. He did not want Sherlock to have seen it! It was too embarrassing! Never mind that Sherlock had been there!

"Since I heard Mycroft mention it. You're now up half a million views by the way," Sherlock said as he glanced at the loaded video on his mobile.

John groaned and hid his face. Sherlock assured him exactly the same way that Mycroft had earlier, that it would eventually fade. Mostly.

"We do not have to tell them anything," answered Sherlock, continuing the conversation instead of waiting for John to continue as John was still agonizing over a video that hardly mattered.

"There's not a rule is there? About inter-office dating?"

"No. As long as it does not affect our work."

"Well, Mrs. Hudson, at least?"

Sherlock sighed. "Mrs. Hudson then. I suspect she is already aware."

"Nothing gets by her, does it?" Sherlock agreed but the buzzing of a mobile phone punctured his words. John glanced in the direction where he had abandoned his coat the day before. He had forgotten all about it. "One second."

He rose quickly from the chair and made his way over to his coat, searching inside for the pocket were Sherlock had returned the annoying device after hanging up on John's mother. It seemed that she was calling once more. He considered again, for a moment, on answering her.

However, John just pressed the 'end' button and switched the sound and motion functions off before unceremoniously dumping the phone back into his pocket.

"Important?" Sherlock inquired.

"Hardly." He sat back down at the table for lunch and didn't give his mother another thought. John hoped it wouldn't be a move he would regret.

X

The weekend passed much more quickly than John had hoped. Had it really just been Friday afternoon he was worrying about the two days stretching ahead?

The remainder of Saturday passed similar to Friday, with some major noted changes. Yes, Sherlock did continue to read to him, the horror stories they had started Friday night.

"Why do you not own a telly?" John had finally asked him.

"Because the sort of programs they show will rot away my intelligence," Sherlock answered pithily. "I would just rather not invite temptation into my home, thank you."

"But you don't watch telly for learning, you watch for entertainment," John laughed. "You've never just taken an afternoon to sit and watch incredibly crap television to perk yourself up?"

With the look that Sherlock provided him, John supposed he never had just taken an afternoon off from his brain or standards.

"Well, I might have to remedy that," John told Sherlock, who simply rolled his eyes. John would have been offended, had he not seen the ghost of a smirk playing on the other man's sallow lips.

Sherlock showed off his more musical side by playing idly on his violin. John sat on the loveseat, languidly listening to the variety of notes and snatches of familiar music, noting Sherlock's rigid pose that was gained, no doubt, from the years of lessons that had been alluded to by Mycroft.

"Well I much prefer the violin when you play it properly," John smiled, sipping from a lukewarm cup of tea, "than when you are cross. Did you ever consider a professional career?"

Sherlock laughed as he took the empty seat beside John, crossing his long legs. The violin had been returned to a stack of books. "Not hardly, though Mycroft and mother tried." John realized he didn't know hardly anything about Sherlock's family, beyond Mycroft. He had wanted to discover if the cause of Sherlock's sometimes-difficult personality was indeed his mother, as he had suspected.

"So you were close to your father?" It was difficult to imagine Sherlock as anything other than he was now. At some point, he must have been small, just as everyone else.

"Closer than I was to Mother." The use of past tense indicated that his mother was out of the picture. John wasn't sure if that meant she was physically dead or socially. "Until he died."

"I'm sorry," said John softly.

"Don't be. Unless you killed him." John glanced up at Sherlock's face, to see a thin smile there. At John's dismayed expression, Sherlock merely chuckled darkly and continued. "John, your expressions are most amusing. I could not resist a small joke at your expense to see such a look. I was closer to my father, when I was a boy. My mother was always too ill to-"

Here Sherlock paused in his narrative, as if searching for the right phrase, probably so that he would not reveal too much about his past. He tried again, "she was always too ill to be of any real instruction to me when I was growing up and Mycroft had already been such a colossal disappointment.

She failed to know how to love sons who were so different from her own personal beliefs. She tried to 'cure' Mycroft and that failed. She tried with me as well, to no avail. I suspect that disappointment is eventually what killed her couple of years ago."

So it was a bit of mother trouble, John suspected. Unable to think of an appropriate response, John settled for leaning his head against Sherlock's shoulder for a quiet moment of reflection. It wasn't but a fraction of the full story, but John felt they were making improvement.

X

John did not want to leave Sunday, but it was necessary. As much as he loved spending time with Sherlock, John was weary of Mycroft's collection of 80s clothing. And he needed some time to just watch 'crap' telly and think for a bit before Monday.

Sherlock also had tea with Mycroft, a tradition set in stone before John had ever appeared.

"You're invited as well," Sherlock told him, as they stood outside of John's building.

"No, thanks." One Holmes was bad enough, but two of them? "You spend time with your brother," John smiled. "And fill me in on the gossip later."

There was a long, awkward silence.

"Tomorrow then?" Sherlock asked.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'll call tonight, to be sure you're still alive after all my hard work," Sherlock smirked.

"Oh, I will be," grinned John. Sherlock leaned in, very close, as if he were going to confess a secret. Instead, he pressed his lips to John's in a brief, but firm kiss before departing down the street.

John stood there in the chilly spring wind for a few seconds, watching Sherlock's tall frame move rapidly down the sidewalk and out of sight. He felt warm, tingly inside, like some sort of schoolgirl as he took off up the stairs to his flat.

He showered, changed into his comfortable and familiar clothes, and collapsed on his couch with his mobile in hand.

No less than fifty-seven calls from his mother, his voice mail full.

He groaned, knowing that he was going to have to answer, sooner or later. _Better make it sooner. _He dialed his voicemail, listening to the progression of her anger from soft-spoken threats to vicious outrage. Each was deleted without a second thought.

The last message, however, chilled his being to the core.

"_John," _his mother said tiredly, her voice sounding far away, _"Harriet is in the hospital. That 'friend' of hers lost your number." _She went on to provide the hospital address and stressed again to come as quickly as possible.

Feeling his heart rise to his throat, John grabbed his coat, texted Harriet's girlfriend, Clara. Then, remembered Sherlock had said he would call as well, so John dashed an explanatory text off to his partner as well before he dashed out the door. He tried calling his mother, to let her know he was on his way, but she wasn't answering.

He hailed a taxi, hoping that things were not as dire as he felt they were.

X

In one weekend, John had now made two visits to the hospital. He realized this fact as he ran through the doors, inquiring about his sister at the information desk. John didn't pay much attention to the people around him as he flew down halls in search of his sister.

"Oh John, there you are," said Clara from a doorway John had nearly overlooked. She grabbed him in a tight hug, her small, birdlike frame shivering. He could see that her mascara had bled down her cheeks.

"What's going on?"

"She just collapsed at home. I-I-I-"She gulped as they stepped through the doorway to the semi-dark hospital room. "She wasn't b-b-breathing John. She was so c-c-confused. I told her not to drink today, I tried to stop her. She was turning b-b-blue. S-s-s-so c-c-cold."

"Alright, alright," he soothed, rubbing her shoulder. Harry was motionless and pale. Even in her worst drunken stupors, John had never seen her looking so near Death's door. He, thankfully, didn't see his mother anywhere nearby. "Where is my mother?"

"She said she needed a walk." That was his mother's code for she was leaving. He had heard it many times. How could she be so cold?

"Good thing I got here then," he mumbled. "Tell me what happened," John said as they sat down near Harry's bed. Harry seemed stable enough for now. Clara seated herself beside him, but kept her eyes on Harry. Between sobs and gulps, Clara explained as best she could what had happened to Harry that afternoon. It was as much as John suspected.

The doctors were thinking alcohol poisoning, something John had dreaded for months, since Clara reported her drinking habits increasing. IV fluids, regulating her blood sugar, oxygen, and close monitoring were their best bets right now. Therapy and counseling later, to prevent another bout.

"I tried to get her help, but she just wouldn't listen to me," Clara blubbered.

"I know, I know," John soothed, "everything is going to work out." He knew the sense of helplessness Clara was experiencing, because he had tried to help Harry for a long time, until it had verged on pointless. People won't change, unless they really feel the desire to do so.

Clara was nothing short of a saint for staying with Harry this long. And he was thankful she had, otherwise, his sister would have probably died.

It was late, when Harry finally regained some consciousness. Even later when John, finally felt it safe enough to leave, after he had spoken to medical staff, assured Clara everything was going to be okay, and tried to call his mother again.

As he rubbed his face, glancing at the single digit morning hour in his mobile, John thought if it wasn't one thing, it was quite another.

Earlier he had ignored a text from Sherlock. He checked it now, on the way home. It said _Call when you leave. Still awake. _It was three a.m. now. John wondered if that was still true. Had it really just been mere hours? It felt like days.

He dialed and Sherlock answered on the first ring. It was a relief to speak to someone else, even if it was just for a few minutes on the ride home. Needing a few hours of rest before work, John crashed on his couch after setting the alarm on his mobile, falling into a dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note: **Really, one thing, and then another…


	9. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: **Again, special thanks to **Amirrel** who was kind enough to point out my mistake on the last chapter about Harry's girlfriend, which is all remedied now in the last chapter and in this one. Still have no idea why I put Clare really. Anywho, apologize for such an oversight.

Thanks for all the continued support on this story. It does keep me going.

This will just be a sort of cute, filler chapter I think, to balance out the rollercoaster of the previous chapter (which I know probably wasn't the best one – but necessary to move the story along). But it will introduce another Sherlock character, who has been slightly reworked to fit this AU storyline (but hopefully not reworked so that he is OOC.)

Let me know of any mistakes

**Disclaimer: **I don't own. You know that by now.

Where the Lines Overlap

Chapter 008: 007 Arts

The next day at work was not at all, what John had feared while contemplating in Sherlock's kitchen the previous day.

"John, glad to see you looking better," Mrs. Hudson told him warmly as he stopped by her office. She avoided looking at John's still noticeable purple and red forehead. "When I spoke to Sherlock on Saturday he sounded promising. Are you certain you wish to work today? I would understand completely if you wanted the day off."

"No, I would rather be here at work with everyone. As long as I don't have to do regular circulation today."

"Oh heavens no! No, you can resume your normal duties today. I need Sherlock's office kept as clean as possible this week, which I know will not be a problem."

"Alright. Any particular reasoning Mrs. Hudson?"

"Well…" She hesitated. "We might be hiring a new staff member this week and I should not want him to think that keep pigs' sties around here."

"Oh, well I shall be sure to tidy everything up then." John had not realized there was a second opening. "No problem."

"And John?"

"I'm glad that Sherlock has finally let someone in." He was aware of his mouth opening and closing, much like a fish, before he finally smiled. Good old Mrs. Hudson. Just as Sherlock had predicted, she knew more than she let on.

John was very happy to throw himself into the work that had piled up Friday in his absence: billing, fulfilling requests, and organizing.

Occasionally, he stole glances at Sherlock, who was just as busy trying to fend off his usual elderly patrons he had neglected for John on Friday. Sometimes those glances passed unnoticed, while other times Sherlock's icy, blue eyes caught his with a surreptitious smirk.

John relished the shiver of delight that traveled down his spine on these occasions and work seemed to fly by.

Around noon, John's stomach was grumbling. He wondered if he should try to invite Sherlock to lunch with him, or if that would draw too much attention.

"Lunch?" he asked, standing behind Sherlock's workstation. Sherlock whipped around quickly with his office chair, telephone in hand. "Ah, alright."

While he had a chance, John scuttled off to lunch alone. He needed to check his mobile anyway, for his either mother or Clara. The break room was completely empty for once, so he used the opportunity to call Clara.

"John?" She sounded groggy, despite the hour being mid-afternoon.

"I apologize. Did I wake you?"

"Yeah. I was just going to call you, however."

"With good news I trust?"

"Yes. Harry's on the mend." He could hear his sister's gruff voice in the background. "Just a sec, she wants to speak to you." He could hear the mobile scraping against things as it was passed from hand to hand.

"John?" she asked.

"Harry. You gave us quite a scare yesterday," he admonished. He could hear her huff down the mouthpiece. "I am glad you're okay."

She mumbled something about also being glad she was alive. John wondered if she meant it. Or if she was actually trying to kill herself this time.

"You actually worried mum enough to come check on you."

"Well, that was quite thoughtful of her," Harry murmured sarcastically. "Did she remember to bring a priest along, to change my wicked ways?"

"Harry!" She made a sort of choking noise John guessed was supposed to be a laugh. "No. She did seem quite worried for once. At least, until she left Clara alone there."

"Typical."

"Harry, we're all worried about you. Alcohol poisoning is a serious business." The timer on the microwave alerted John that his lunch had finished heating. He cradled his mobile between his shoulder and ear, as he attempted to retrieve his soup.

He still somehow ended up using the pink-edged bowl from his first full day of work. What had happened to bringing one from home? Not rising early enough or making the most of his time this morning.

"What are you doing?" Harry questioned as John swore while transferring the bowl from the microwave to the table. He blew on his hot fingertips, wanting desperately to tell the bowl a few unmentionable things that it could go and do.

"I'm on lunch at work."

"You, work?" John realized just how out of touch the siblings actually were.

"Yeah. I have a proper job now." As he attempted to eat his soup in the thirty minutes he was given for break, John explained all about his job now, and how it had changed his life. The conversation felt like old times, back before both of them outgrew each other's company.

"I've missed speaking with you," Harry told him, her voice sounding tired. He agreed to come visit at the hospital, once he was finished with work, so they could catch up. He hung up, feeling guiltier than ever that he had not tried to contact his sister in a long time. He wondered if he had not made things worse, by giving her plenty of space, just as she had requested a long time ago.

"Productive call, I trust?" Sherlock asked, grabbing a cup of coffee and leaning against the counter. John realized he was five minutes late returning from break.

"Er, yes. It was," said John as he jumped up from the table, hurriedly trying to gulp the last of his now cold soup. "Harry is much better and I'll be paying her a visit after work." Unfortunately, the soup spilled down the front of his sweater vest. He groaned, reaching for a napkin to sponge himself as best he could.

Remembering that Sherlock was watching, John instantly flushed with color and bumbled around worse than ever.

"Do you just enjoy that bowl for some curious reason?" Sherlock asked as John dropped the bowl in the sink.

"Yes, I think the pink rim always compliments my chicken soup," John told him sarcastically, as he continued to dab at his sweater. Of all the days he needed to wear black, he didn't. The more he dabbed, the worse the spot got.

"Leave it well enough alone," Sherlock finally said, reaching for the napkin, to throw it away in the rubbish bin. Those long, willowy fingers grasped John's, Sherlock holding his gaze with a smirk. John could almost see the thoughts fleeting through that sharp mind.

John honestly believed that Sherlock would have stolen a kiss at that very moment, the best kind, furtive ones gained at work with the danger of being caught.

However, someone cleared her throat behind the couple. John just knew that he and Sherlock looked like guilty children, caught with their hands in the biscuit tin. While John was fretful, Sherlock coolly maintained his composure and continued to hold John's hands with the napkin, as if there was nothing wrong.

"I wondered where you two had gotten," Mrs. Hudson said with a knowing twinkle in her eye. She glanced at their clasped hands and back at John's revealing face. "I would like you to meet someone."

A young man, probably near in age to John or Sherlock stepped out from behind Mrs. Hudson's back. He was John's height, with short, messy dark hair that had the appearance of being carelessly styled, if it were not for the shine of added product.

He had reflective, chocolate eyes, which looked as if he were carrying the satisfaction of a bad deed done well. He was wearing a smile that did not meet his eyes and a clean suit that did not quite seem to fit.

Instantly, John knew there was something he didn't like about the man.

"Gentlemen, this is-"

"Jim," the man cut in, eagerly stepping forward with his hand outstretched. Sherlock grudgingly released John's hands, so that John was able to complete the customary greeting. "Jim Moriarty." There was an Irish lilt to his cheerful voice, lending an almost sing-songy tone to the stranger. Jim held his hand out to Sherlock, who merely stared at it until Jim was forced to retract it.

"And he is here for what position exactly? I was not aware of any openings after John's position." Sherlock asked Mrs. Hudson, ignoring Moriarty's presence completely.

"For Circulation Manager. Mrs. Hunter is retiring in a few weeks. The director thought it best to begin the process of moving in another, to fill the coming void."

"I see," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes at Jim, as if he could see something in the other librarian that wasn't as readily apparent to John.

"I was eager to meet you especially Sherlock," Jim grinned, though it seemed more of a leer to John. "I used some of your articles on the subject of Research at Uni. Fantastic things." He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, pockets in hands, and resembling a keen schoolboy.

Sherlock settled for just an "oh?"

"Yes. Your article on the 'Art of Deduction' in realizing improbable truths when there is no other alternative was particularly fascinating." Sherlock didn't reply again. John glanced briefly at his partner's face, thinking it was a touch more pale than it had been before Jim's interruption.

"Well, I will let you boys return to work," Mrs. Hudson finally announced, clearing the tense silence. "Come along Jim."

"I hope I see you _both _again sometime in the future?" It was a statement, thinly veiled as a question. Once the pair was out of earshot, John turned back to Sherlock. The other man's expression was unreadable.

"Sherlock?" he asked. It was a couple of moments before he succeeded in drawing the lanky man back to the present. "What was that all about?" John tried to keep his voice light, a smile on his lips.

"I'm not sure. At any rate John, you need to return to work. I'll be right behind you."

"Oh really?" John asked, with a sly smile. He waited for a few seconds, to see if Sherlock was going to play along with the innuendo. When he didn't, John simply headed back to work and left Sherlock in the break room.

If he didn't know any better, John would say that Sherlock was terrifically distracted by their visitor. Something was off-putting about Jim Moriarty, John agreed.

When he returned to Sherlock's desk, he didn't see the hiring prospect or Mrs. Hudson again that day.

At the end of his shift, John bade Sherlock goodbye and headed over the hospital to see Harry as promised. Clara stepped out for some much needed rest while John sat with his sister.

The two caught up on old times, as promised.

Just before John left for the night, Harry told him something.

"I always knew we were more alike," she said, as Clara dropped her things in a nearby chair. A doctor had said Harry would be discharged in the morning. "That you were like 'us," she said, gesturing between herself and Clara.

"I guess so," he said, thinking fondly of his budding relationship with Sherlock. On his walk home, he wondered if he would ever have exactly what Clara and Harry had, if he even wanted that type of normal.

Because things around Sherlock, never seemed normal.

X

The week progressed normally, with John's forehead slowly returning to normal. He and Sherlock were so busy with patrons and work that Monday's visitor was not mentioned again. Jim Moriarty slipped from John's mind completely.

John called Clara and Harry when he could, to see that his sister was not giving a repeat performance of Sunday again. There was talk of getting professional help, though John wasn't sure if Harry meant it or was just telling him what he wanted to hear.

Friday morning, when John entered the office, Sherlock was waiting for him behind the desk. His fingers were tented, as if he had been sitting there deep in thought for some time.

"I've put in your carpet request to Mrs. Hudson again, but all she says is 'I'll think about it,'" John joked, as he leaned against the edge.

Sherlock smirked and said, "Did she now? Progress." He looked down at something on the desk in front of him.

"Shall I get to work then?"

"In a moment. You're free tonight?"

"Hm, well let's see. I have about four hours of crap telly, pornography surfing, and general debauchery lined up ahead, but I can fit something in."

Sherlock gaped at him. "Not washing your hair then? It is Friday after all."

"No Sherlock. Honestly, I have no plans. Unless I knock myself on the head again. I'm all yours." Sherlock smiled briefly with the remembrance of last Friday's events.

"Then perhaps you would accompany me to a concert." He gestured to the passes in front of him on the desk.

"What, like a rock and roll concert?" John smiled, recalling his teenage years.

Sherlock made an indignant sound. "Hardly. This is something more…classical." Glancing at the passes, John caught something about the violin. While classical concertos were not John's idea of a Friday night, he did want another chance to spend time with Sherlock that was not at work or the hospital or involved head injuries of any kind.

"Alright, sounds like fun." Another idea occurred to him. "Is this a date then?"

"If you're going to use labels," Sherlock said, rising from the chair. "I'll collect you at six, for a spot of dinner before the show."

"Looking forward to it," John said as Sherlock exited the office. The remainder of the day was a blur, John's thoughts drifting to the evening ahead. He missed Mags at lunch, realizing he had not spoken to her in some time. He resolved to speak to her Monday, should the chance arise.

After work, John rushed home to clean up himself and his flat, the latter just in the event that Sherlock invited himself upstairs. Sherlock had mentioned nothing about a dress code, but John erred on the side of caution and dusted off one of his Sunday garments.

Just before six pm, John hurried downstairs to wait in the building's lobby. He could feel the first prickling of sweat under his arms, even though this wasn't a date, exactly.

He checked the time on his mobile every few seconds, waiting for six o' clock, even though he figured Sherlock would not arrive exactly on time. He didn't, of course. John knew it was foolish, but he worried that Sherlock wasn't going to show up at all.

But at ten after, Sherlock came striding up, looking flustered at being late. He gestured through the glass to waiting cab. John paused for just a few seconds; to be sure, this was real and not just one of his delusions.

After a second or two, he realized he needed desperately to open the door and step outside before someone called the manager and complained about all the noise.

"Are you coming John?"

"Yes. Just had a-well-never mind. Let's go." They traveled to a small restaurant where Sherlock was on first name basis with the owner. Sherlock was not one for idle or meaningless chitchat, so the meal was silent but comfortable.

John didn't feel the need to speak as they people watched and munched down on a dinner that tasted almost home-cooked. John was thankful for the peace and quiet after such a frenzied day.

While classical music was not his forte, John was content in observing Sherlock's delight with each piece. Sherlock rarely genuinely smiled that John wondered if they were caught in an alternative universe for only a few hours.

He spent more time stealing glances at his partner instead of paying the performance any attention. John could appreciate his partner's appreciation of the art of violin.

If only every night could be this good. He found himself wondering, yet again, what it would be like to spend every night with Sherlock. To never return to his pitiful, lonely flat again. Sure, they would most likely have falling-outs over horribly common things.

But then again, there would be other moments like this, filled with comfortable silence, and possibly a violin. Time spent reading. Time spent on things that are more physical. Time spent sleeping. And eating.

Almost married.

Commitment.

_You're jumping ahead a chapter old boy. Finish this one first, _John thought to himself as he adjusted for the third or fourth time in his seat. The idea wasn't wholly a foreign concept any longer. John needed to focus on the here and now, not the future just yet.

During a particularly intricate piece, Sherlock's hand tightened over his on the seat's armrest and remained there for the duration. John smiled. He could get used to this.

As they exited the performance hall, John was mulling over how quickly his free time with Sherlock seemed to pass when a face caught his eye. It was like seeing someone that had only previously existed in a dream in real life. He knew the man near the entrance looked familiar in the brief glance he caught of his features.

John just couldn't place why.

He paused, searching the crowd again, hoping to light on whoever had drawn his attention. But the man didn't resurface.

Brushing the temporary lapse from his mind, John hurried after Sherlock to soak up the remaining moments of their "almost" date.

"Something the matter John?" Sherlock questioned when a breathless John met him at the curb.

"No. I can't part the crowd with my height the way you do," John teased as Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Not all of us are gifted with long legs."

"Good genetics," Sherlock argued, as they climbed into the cab. Their friendly banter continued as they sped away into the night.

X

**Author's End Note: **So, do you know who it was that John might have seen?


	10. Chapter 9 Part 1

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much for all the continued support on this story! Give yourselves all a big pat on the back because you deserve it : ) Really, I appreciate all the reviews, favs, and alerts – it means so much to have your support for this story.

I hope I never disappoint with the updates. But if I do, don't hesitate to let me know (nicely of course, as criticism helps me with future works).

This next part will be divided up again. And then there will be only more part beyond the split.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything and am only borrowing most things.

Where the Lines Overlap

Chapter 009: 008 Literatures – Part One

Wednesday morning John received a nasty shock when he arrived at work. The shock was actually two-fold in nature: Sherlock was neither at his desk nor in his office and there was a new arrival around at the circulation section.

Sticking his head in Mrs. Hudson's office, he asked, "Where is Sherlock?"

"Sick dear. Sounded dreadful when he called in. Of course, he always sounds terrible, but in another way, more like a dragon who has been roused from his sleep a bit early." A buzzing in John's pocket a few seconds later confirmed Sherlock's illness today.

"Oh. Well I suppose I should take him some soup or something after work."

As if reading John's mind, even from his flat, Sherlock texted _Completely unnecessary to bring wellness items or expose yourself to bacteria. _

John ignored his order and answered that he would be paying a visit, like it or not, before he powered down his phone. Sherlock had been so kind to John during his head injury that weekend; it was only good form to return the favor.

Besides, they were an item and John would be completely cold hearted not to visit.

He had not realized that Mrs. Hudson had still been speaking during this entire digital exchange until he caught the name 'Moriarty.'

"What?" John asked, trying not to feel too terribly thick.

"Jim Moriarty starts today. He requested some time to speak with you specifically, I suppose in Sherlock's stead." John wondered briefly if Sherlock's absence was on purpose.

"Alright. What time?"

"Now, if you wouldn't mind," Jim smiled from the doorway, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets in such a way that made him both amiable and menacing. John wondered how long he had been standing there.

"Alright then. Later then, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Sure dear." She waved them both out of her office. Being Circulation Manager did not include a private office, John noticed as they walked over to a clearer desk behind the counter.

Jim had only been there for a short time that morning. John didn't think he would have much to say. Jim cleared a seat for John and they sat down. After a few seconds of awkward silence, John began to wonder if he was expected to begin the conversation when it was Jim who had expressly requested his presence.

John cleared his throat.

"You're wondering why I wanted to speak with you." It was not a question, but a statement of the obvious.

"Yeah, that would be it. You've hit the nail on the head." John wondered why this waste of his time was necessary and why he was tolerating it. It wasn't as if he had to answer to Jim Moriarty at the end of the day.

Moriarty looked at him, with that smile that did not reach his very shiny eyes and finally said, "I wanted to formally introduce myself to all the staff today, tell you some things about myself."

"Alright," John nodded along.

"I've just received my degree in Information and Library Science." John noted a degree hung on the wall, but could not see the date to confirm. "This is my first job out of school." Which, felt like a lie, though John couldn't prove its validity otherwise. "And I'm actually quite nervous." John was sure that was a lie.

There was no trace of nervousness or fear in Jim's face. He was not sweating, twitching, fretting or displaying any other tell. Then again, John knew that Sherlock would probably be able to notice more, were he here today.

"Oh," John said, for lack of a better answer. Should he give comfort? It would feel forced and he wasn't sure that he wanted to involve himself too much with this man. Of all the days for Sherlock to be absent! "Well I am sure you will do just fine." He made to leave, to focus only on the work to be completed for the day without Sherlock's distant but familiar presence.

"Tell me a little about yourself," Jim said, halting John's escape. John resisted the overwhelming urge to sigh loudly. Sherlock would not have allowed himself to be roped into such a situation.

"I've worked here, for Sherlock, a few months now." Spring was now beginning to give way to summer.

"Ah, Sherlock Holmes. He's…something else isn't he?" John agreed. "Something of a legend at the school. Does things his own particular way, doesn't he?" John agreed again. "You know," Jim started, leaning in a bit closer than was completely necessary, "he lectured once at the university."

"Oh?" John wondered where this conversation was really going.

"Yes. I simply couldn't get enough of his theories then. He – well his work anyway- became the topic of my research."

"Interesting." Jim sounded like an overexcited schoolgirl, who has just learned her boy group crush is coming to town. Unease gripped John's insides.

"Yes indeed."

"I have much work to do, if you'll excuse me." This time John shot of the chair, before Jim tried any other means to stop him.

"Let me know if there is ever anything I can do to help," Jim called after him. John ducked into the safety of Sherlock's office, shutting the door close for the first time since he had begun working at the library. He had cleaned it months ago, but never had a reason actually to use the door before now.

Sherlock's desk was empty and there was no reason for John to keep the door open for invitation today. John waited for his breathing and heart rate to resume their normal paces before proceeding with his work.

His fingers spent most of the day operating of their own accord, as John's mind was consumed with his odd meeting with Jim. As much as he hated jumping to conclusions, John couldn't shake the thought that Jim had ulterior motives for employment.

He sat outside at the picnic table, since the weather was for once fair, with some of Sherlock's articles to see if he could distinguish what had caught Jim's eye in research. The articles were interesting and John could see how they would be very useful.

But he still could not fully explain Jim's behavior about Sherlock. It almost seemed to be…a crush.

"Well you look quite scholarly," Mags smiled, sitting across from John. He had not heard her walk up.

"I do try. Perhaps a pair of glasses would help?" he grinned. "You know, have to keep up with Sherlock."

"Yes, that can be quite a chore sometimes." John wasn't sure if it was just the light, but there seemed to be a few more fine wrinkles around Mags' mouth. Did she look paler? More drawn? Perhaps she had been ill recently. "So, what brings you out here?"

"Just didn't fancy the break room chatter today." Mags raised an eyebrow.

"Hm. Because I was thinking it might have something to do with that new manager." John had to smile. Nothing seemed to make it past Mags either. He wondered briefly if this was what Mrs. Hudson was like young.

"Is it that obvious?"

"No. There's something not quite _on_ with him, is there?" John glanced behind them, at the window. The elder ladies seemed charmed enough.

"No, there isn't."

"Word around the office is that he quite fancies Sherlock. Suppose you better watch your back there, Watson."

"And the source of the word would be…Mrs. Hudson?"

"The same." John glanced at his watch, realizing he needed to be returning to work in a minute.

"I'll be sure to do that." Mags nodded, dialing a number on her mobile, biting her lip as she waited for the ringing to end.

X

After work, John stopped by a store to gather a few things for Sherlock, despite his earlier warning to stay away. He had managed to duck out the back door without Jim hanging around. Just for the heck of it, John picked up a terrible, bargain bin movie that he knew was sure to get criticized by Sherlock.

He hailed a cab and texted Sherlock that he was on his way, just so that Sherlock had some warning.

_Why do you insist on doing exactly what I tell you _not _to do? _Sherlock texted back.

_Because no one wants to be truly alone when they're sick. Is Mycroft going to look after you?_

_No, _came Sherlock's tart, even through text, reply.

_Exactly. _

_I don't have to let you in. _

_I'll stand outside your door and sing. _

_Very well. _John didn't know if very well meant that he would be standing outside Sherlock's flat all night, singing – terribly he might add, or if that meant he had worn his partner down into letting him inside. Or even if Sherlock were referring to his ideas were 'very well.'

He supposed he would find out when he arrived.

X

John was relieved to see that the original elevator was functioning this time. He nodded to the surely looking desk manager and pressed the ^ button. The front doors opened again, while he was waiting and a familiar girl walked in.

"You're Sherlock's friend, right?" she asked, coming to stand beside him.

"Yup. And you're…" He searched around for her name, though all he could remember was the awkwardness of their meeting under the crook of Sherlock's arm.

"Molly," she smiled. "Not the most exciting name, I suppose," she smiled.

"Try having a very common name. Who isn't named John? There was an apostle and a Beatle with the same name – I think my mother expected me to walk in their shoes." Molly laughed.

"What's all this then?" she asked, gesturing to his multiple bags.

"Oh, just some things for Sherlock."

"Is he ill?"

"Not life threateningly, though he acts as if he has the plague. I thought I would surprise him."

"Oh," she nodded thoughtfully, as they stepped into the elevator together. "Well that's sweet of you. How is your head?"

"Better off than it was," he told her, giving it a light rap. "Thanks for asking. You were coming home from work?" John asked, trying to make polite conversation.

"Yes. I'm an analyst, at a lab. Gets a bit boring by myself all day, so I try to go out with friends."

"Are you going out again tonight then?"

"Yes. A friend of mine needs some cheering up, so we're going to take her out for an evening on the town." She went on to explain that someone had set her up with a blind date (she didn't know if it was to be considered blind because they had never met or if her date was actually blind – as had happened before). There was a bit of loneliness that clung to Molly, John realized, despite all her plans.

They parted ways, just before he reached Sherlock's flat. He knocked, three sharp raps and waited.

"Door's unlocked," Sherlock croaked from inside, his usual low voice full of static from congestion. John let himself in, locking the door behind him. The flat was as cluttered as before, John having to step over piles of books to make his way into the sitting room.

Sherlock was seated on the loveseat with his laptop. He was wrapped in a thick robe with a blue scarf tied about his neck. John noted that a pile of tissues sat beside him and Sherlock's nose had been rubbed raw.

"You are sick, aren't you?"

"No. I've been trying to unsuccessfully breathe fire."

"Yeah, Mrs. Hudson was right when she said you sounded as terrible as a dragon," John smiled as he headed for the cluttered kitchen. It was not her exact quote.

"She was that flattering?"

"Yes, actually. I believe your absence was cause for celebration. Streamers, spot of cake, the full works." He began setting various items on a small section of the counter.

"Hah." Sherlock went to laugh, but sneezed violently instead.

"Didn't need me huh? Here, drink this." He handed Sherlock a fresh bottle of juice.

"I don't want to," Sherlock told him, though he gave the plastic lid a sharp twist.

"I don't care," quipped John, moving past Sherlock to clean the tissues away from the loveseat. He put a rubbish bin nearby, for future tissues before going off in search of a pillow and blankets.

"What are you doing, mucking about my flat?" Sherlock demanded, following John around.

"And what are you doing still standing? Go sit," John said, giving the taller man a push in the direction of the common room.

"I got along all day on my own, thank you," snapped Sherlock, his usual handsome voice sounding as if it were coming through a bad connection. He took a long, noisy drink from the juice, despite his initial protest.

"Oh really? This place is a bloody pigs sty," John teased, returning from the bedroom with a pillow and blanket. "Go sit and I'll clean up a bit.'

"I don't want to do that either."

"Too bad. Your list of things you don't want rivals the things you do. Go sit."

"You're not my mother."

"No, not unless you happen to have one of her hats around here," he grinned, following Sherlock back out to the couch with the bed things.

"Hardly." He collapsed on the couch and after much more arguing, allowed John to wrap him in a blanket and make him comfortable with a pillow or two.

After Sherlock was asleep, John began tidying up the flat – an activity that could not be completed while Sherlock was awake, as he squabbled so.

The work gave his mind time to reflect on the strange and mildly disturbing conversation with Jim at work. No matter how he reviewed the conversation, it still amounted to something vaguely resembling a crush.

"Something's bothering you," Sherlock observed from his nook in the loveseat. John nearly jumped out of his skin, dropping the rag he had in his hand, and feeling quite foolish. He had not realized Sherlock was awake again.

"How could you tell?"

"You've been standing there with the rag for…ten minutes now. It's something about work?"

"Yes, but how could yo-"

"Tell? If it were your sister or mother, you would check your mobile, presumably expecting a call. The only place that you've been today is work, as far as I know." It always sounded so simple when Sherlock explained it.

"Yes, today was Jim Moriarty's first day."

"And? Did he happen to set fire to something?" John chuckled.

"No. Actually, he requested specifically to speak to me." At this, Sherlock sat up a little more in his blankets, looking quite alert, despite his illness.

"Tell me everything." He thumped the seat beside him, where they both had very fond memories the last time John visited.

Abandoning his tidying efforts, John seated himself close to Sherlock and began explaining everything that happened and everything he might have thought at the time. Sherlock, for once, was silent and listening.

"What do you think it means?" John asked when he was finished explaining.

"That he can fool Mrs. Hudson, but he cannot fool me."

"You know him, don't you? From before."

"No. I know his type. That's different."

"His type? He's a type now?"

"John, it is very important that you stay away from him."

"And if he won't stay away from me?" The problem didn't lie in John's seeking attention from Moriarty, but rather in Moriarty actively seeking John's company.

"Get creative John," he sighed, rolling his eyes.

"Any particular reason?"

"No." Sherlock did not elaborate and John knew better than to press him.

"Well, alright then. How about a movie?"

"What sort?"

"The worst kind."

"A bargain, I presume?"

"Only the best quality." John retrieved Sherlock's laptop, which had been opened to research – presumably for a patron, and inserted the disk.

X

Later, once the movie had been criticized – in Sherlock's usual sarcastic fashion, and John was lying in bed beside his partner, his mind continued playing over Moriarty's appearances.

It was a long time before he finally drifted off to sleep, listening to Sherlock's heavy breathing. He wasn't sure if it was the freight train sleeping next to him or his own troubled thoughts that kept him so disconcerted so far into the early morning hours.

X

The next morning, Sherlock was a touch better, but still not ready for work. John left Sherlock's flat early enough to swing by his own, change, and make it to work on time. He promised again- despite Sherlock's sleepy protests, to come by after work.

John briefly greeted Mrs. Hudson and explained Sherlock's second absence, then headed for their office for work. There was no sign of Moriarty and John wondered if he had managed to beat the circulation supervisor to work that morning.

He sat down, pressing the power button on his computer, only to discover it was already awake. The computer made a noise of protest.

John felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck rise.

In an effort to calm himself down, he considered that he might have left the machine on in his haste to leave the day before. No files seemed to have opened. Nothing seemed amiss.

He clicked 'Start' then 'Recent Documents' to be sure no extras had been opened or altered.

Nothing seemed disturbed. Perhaps he had simply left the machine on after all.

John glanced at the desk, trying to decide if the paperwork there had been disturbed. Perhaps a paper here or there. Could have happened when he sat down earlier.

"Good morning. Sherlock in?" Jim asked, knocking on the doorway. John was thankful that he didn't have any type of hot liquid in his hand this morning, as it would have been spilled. Jim had a nasty habit of appearing when John least expected.

"Er, no. Still, ill I'm afraid." Jim was saying something, probably polite – and only slightly creepy, but John only heard Sherlock's warning from the night before.

"I apologize, but I've got quite a bit of work lined up today," John told him. He must have interrupted something Jim was saying.

"Oh. Well, I suppose it's a good thing I powered up your computer then." Jim wished him well with his work and thankfully disappeared.

It was a few minutes before John rose, shut the door, and actually started work.

Jim.

He had not wanted to say it, to suspect him without evidence, and here he comes confessing. What was he playing at by being so up front?

John texted Sherlock the newest development, hoping to save his voice.

_Looking into something _was Sherlock's only reply.

"Ugh, some help you are," John whispered. He was sure to avoid Jim's lunchtime and make sure his computer was powered down completely at the end of the day.

In the hall, he passed Mrs. Hudson and Hilda – from circulation, discussing Jim.

"He's quite helpful isn't he? Turning on all the computers that way wasn't he?" Hilda was telling Mrs. Hudson, who was nodding vigorously.

Helpful was not the word that John was thinking.

Sherlock was much improved when John arrived at his flat later, this time bringing a proper overnight bag with him, just in case he spent the night again. He was not thrilled to hear the full story behind John's earlier text.

"Do you think he was snooping for something?" John asked.

"He was snooping, obviously."

"But why, Sherlock?" John asked with growing frustration.

"I'm not Jim Moriarty, thank goodness." He paused. "Perhaps it was just a rouse."

"Perhaps. He turned everyone's computers on."

"Good form?"

"I very much doubt there is anything good about Jim Moriarty."

"There isn't. I'll just continue digging until I find it." John hoped Sherlock didn't dig himself in a deep enough hole that the sand collapsed and trapped him.

X


	11. Chapter 9 Part 2

**Author's Note: **Thanks so much for all the feedback on this : ) I really appreciate it! You guys are fantastic!

Sorry it seems to take me so long between chapters. I don't know quite how I got stuck, but hopefully I've worked myself out of a corner here. It's one of those things where, you know what you want to happen, you've just got to get there.

As usual, if anything is amiss, please inform me.

The next chapter will be the last, just a heads up. Everything all neatly tied up, er… hopefully.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own.

* * *

Where the Lines Overlap

Chapter 009: 008 Literatures – Part Two

By Wednesday, Sherlock was much improved and ready to return to work. It was sweet relief for John, as he did not relish the thought of another day on his own with only Moriarty.

"John, continue to leave the door closed when you leave the office," Sherlock told him quietly, watching Jim greet patrons at the circulation desk. John nodded.

But the order was hardly necessary.

Jim Moriarty seemed to stay away from the office for the first few weeks, save for turning everyone's computers on in the mornings, which was annoying but not wholly menacing.

Spring gave way to full summer and everyone seemed busier than before, so if Jim were coming in the office and snooping around, John wouldn't have noticed right away under the layers of paperwork.

And who would he report it to? Who, besides Sherlock, would believe him? Mrs. Hudson or the director would only think him careless and a touch bit paranoid.

He was busy with billing, filling requests from more students looking to get ahead of the curve at university in the fall, and keeping the influx of elderly amiable when Sherlock didn't work on their requests fast enough to their liking.

X

John woke up from the midst of another dream about his time in Afghanistan, feeling obscenely hot with only his sheet tangled around his legs. The air conditioner in his flat must have died again in the middle of the night and he had not realized it.

_Must have been what I thought was another explosion or something. _He tumbled out of bed, the material sticking to his legs as he landed on the chilly floor. He pressed his cheek to the cool relief of the wood for a few minutes, wondering if he could sleep there for just a few more minutes.

Reluctantly, John grunted and hauled himself over to check on the unit. Dead. Plain and simple. He unplugged it.

It was 6:14, too early for any decent sort of phone call. He dialed his building manager, hoping to wake him up. There was a gruff greeting.

"This is John Watson, in flat 207, and my window unit has died." The manager, a squat unhappy little man, didn't seem too disturbed by this news.

"And what do you expect me to do about it?" he asked gruffly.

"It's your building, surely, there's something you're supposed to do." John was now paying more in rent than ever. The unit had come with the room and he understood that repairs were included in his rent price.

"Things die, that's a part of life." John could imagine him shrugging his chubby shoulders.

"Yes, but the unit is part of the rent agreement I thought." He picked at his sticky clothes, which had twisted around in his struggle. His boxers were riding up uncomfortably.

The manager made a few non-committal grunts and said he would have someone look into it, if he could get around to it that day.

In the mean time, John had to find some way to cool himself down. John was not quite desperate enough to use ice cubes from the freezer box just yet. He decided on a cool shower and his thinnest clothes for work. He stripped down, his clothes taking some effort to peel from his skin.

The cool tile felt wonderful beneath his hot feet. John turned the knob, expecting the shock of cold water on his heated flesh, and only receiving a dribble of rusted liquid.

"Huh?" He knocked the showerhead, at a loss as to why his water would stop working too. A great belch of rusted water coughed out of the pipe and just missed John's face. He groaned, watching the mess run down the drain, then stomped back out to his telephone.

The manager was even less than helpful this time.

"Why is the water shut off?"

"No one else has called me with a problem." John slammed the phone down in reply. _All right, okay, just breathe John. _

Then the power failed.

"Oh, well, this is just…" He rubbed the back of his neck, trying hard not to lose his temper. "Just…"

His options were limited to: Text Sherlock and request use of the shower. Call mum, form sort of apology and ask for use of the shower. Text sister and girlfriend, ask favor. Show up for work in a very grody state.

John rubbed his face, feeling the faintest hint of stubble on his chin.

He texted his sister. As he was redressing and gathering clothes, she answered back: _Come on then._

X

"I've never seen you look so on the warpath," Harry told him, letting John in from the street. She ran a hand through her unruly blond hair. John's mouth was set in a hard line, his jaw firm.

"My morning has been…positively unreal." Harry's flat was in a state, John realized as he stepped over the threshold. Bottles and clothing everywhere. Surfaces were cluttered.

No Clara.

"Just make yourself at home."

"Harry, where's Clara?"

"Visiting her mum."

"Really visiting or did she leave you again?"

"Actually visiting. These are water bottles I haven't recycled yet." John picked up a bottle near his foot to see that his sister was telling the truth. It was some sort of cheap imported stuff, with a fancy bottle. "I'm still trying you know. Doing the program and everything."

"Good." She showed him where the lavatory was, how the wonky handle had to be turned just so, and gave him some privacy.

He cleaned up as quickly as possible.

"What's the problem with your flat?" Harry asked, once John emerged, feeling more refreshed.

"The more correct question would be what isn't wrong with it." He quickly outlined the early morning's events over a bit of too hard toast and a bit of tea.

Harry whistled, something John found he could never master.

"Jeeze, so what are you going to do?"

"I don't kn-" He glanced at her kitchen clock. "Is that really the time?"

"Yes." His sister was staring at him, as if he were crazy.

"I've got to go. As of… ten minutes ago." He shoved the last bit of toast in his mouth, promising to call later, thanking her for her hospitality on such short notice.

He caught a cab to work, but still arrive about ten minutes late.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson stopped him just before he reached Sherlock's office. His boss was busy with one of his familiar patrons, Mrs. Stiles, arguing about missing research.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson?" It was taking all of his willpower to smile, as today seemed like one of those days where the best plan would have been to remain in bed, or in John's case, on the floor.

"You're late dear. Something the matter?"

"Er, flat problems. Long story."

"Oh, well perhaps another time then. Jim and I need to see you, in a few moments in my office, if you please." She smiled, but John still gathered the idea that something was wrong. This was similar to how the disastrous Friday began. "After you get settled."

"Alright, not a problem." His grin felt stretched. He opened the door and stepped inside, noting the pile of papers, and powered up computer. So far, nothing too amiss.

He set his things down, checked messages, and then headed out again.

His displeasure must have shown on his face, for Sherlock stopped him just past the door.

"John, I've never seen you look quite so…"

"Uncouth?"

"Hardly. Disconcerted."

"One thing after another," John told him quickly. "Everything in my flat stopped, had to shower at my sister's, and now I'm being called aside by Jim and Mrs. Hudson." His voice was an angry whisper, like the buzzing of bees.

With a quick glance down the hall behind him, John could see Jim headed for Mrs. Hudson's office.

"Why John, I quite like this ruthless side of you." John rolled his eyes.

"Later?"

"By all means." John rushed down the hall and grabbed the chair beside Moriarty and across from Mrs. Hudson.

"Now John-" she started.

He held up his hand. "Wait, am I in trouble for something?" John asked, being direct.

"What?" Mrs. Hudson looked appropriately flustered. "No, no, of course not, why would you think that?"

"I wasn't-" He glanced at Moriarty. "Well, I wanted to be sure."

"No, this isn't anything like that."

"Mrs. Hudson, if I might take it from here?" Jim asked, keeping his smarmy smile firmly in place. John hated that smile, as something quietly menacing was usually lurking just around the corner. Mrs. Hudson seemed reluctant, but nodded none the less.

John turned only slightly enough to acknowledge Moriarty's presence.

"We need you to take over some circulation duties. To fill in for a regular girl on medical leave."

"Come again? Mrs. Hudson, did you not fill him in on the last time I covered for someone? I ended up in the hospital."

"Sounds like a fluke."

"But…er…I was hired to work with Sherlock."

"And now you'll be working with me. Just one or two days a week. Wouldn't want to detract from your _busy _schedule or anything. I'll help him out myself if I can."

"There now John, Jim has everything covered. Such a lovely young man," Mrs. Hudson smiled.

_Yeah, _thought John, _helping me right out of a job if he can. You may be able to fool everyone else, but never me. _

"What choice do I have then?"

"There's a sport then." It was agreed that he would start the next day, working a shift with Moriarty.

When Sherlock was informed, John wasn't sure what sort of reaction he was expecting. He had hoped his partner and supervisor would at the very least look outraged. Instead, he looked thoughtful, perhaps even a little distant.

"Sherlock, you cannot be inferring that this might be a good move!"

"John, have you never heard the old adage, keep your friends close, but your enemy closer?" he asked, fixing John with a smirk.

"Well yes, bu-"

"Then 'but' nothing. John, do you want to assist me with ridding our library of Jim Moriarty or not?"

"Yes, bu-"

"Then let him take you. And you can report back to me, anything you might find useful. Honestly John, you act like Hastings sometimes instead of Poriot."

John fumed quietly for a few minutes in the privacy of the office under Sherlock's gaze.

"Alright. But I'll have you know, I won't enjoy a second of it."

"I didn't ask you to enjoy it. Just to do it and tell me."

"Fine. Alright. I will."

"Good."

"Good. Very good. Perfect, just bloody perfect. Fine." But Sherlock had already returned to the reference desk.

X

When John returned home later, his grim mood was only slightly improved by the fact that his power, water, and air conditioner had been rather restored.

He sat down in his one armchair with a warm beer and his laptop, performing a search on Jim Moriarty to see what might be out there.

John did not get very far, as Harry called to check on the status of his flat – better. Then his mother called, looking most likely for a row – denied, already had plans that day.

X

In the coming weeks, things around the library did not improve in the slightest.

Sherlock and John did not see much of each other at work and Jim always seemed to be in the way anytime they wished to talk. After hours, when John did speak to Sherlock, it was only to recap the days spent with Moriarty.

Their relationship, whatever it was, seemed to be on hold, much to John's chagrin.

And for what?

"Sometimes I feel as if you are in a committed relationship with Moriarty instead of me," John told Sherlock one night. He had meant it as a jest, but it didn't quite feel that way.

The only thing he had managed to glean from Jim during his time spent at the front desk with him was that he seemed excited about fairy tales – more so than a grown man should be, and that he was extremely obsessed with Sherlock – a separate cause for alarm.

"He did not say anything about those files on German folklore being missing from the office?" Sherlock asked again, pacing his flat. Certain folders with requests had been disappearing from the office every now and again – a pattern Sherlock had noted Based on their limited information, Sherlock realized that it was fairytales and folklore among other subjects.

"No Sherlock," John snapped, exasperated. Sherlock took no notice of John's steadily declining patience. "Aside from mentioning some bad takeout he had last night, he hardly spoke to me at all today." He paused. "Thank goodness. He's either very clingy or very cold."

"Hm," was all Sherlock said for a long moment, then, "was it the file about Rumpelstiltskin that was taken?"

"Yes. Look, we've been over this a thousand times today alone Sherlock. You act as if you are some type of detective or something," John burst out. But Sherlock seemed miles away again.

"Rumpelstiltskin," Sherlock repeated, glancing around at his bookshelves. "John, tomorrow, check through the files taken again; all of Mrs. Stiles requests in particular that seem to need recovering."

"Why?"

"There might be something." In the meantime, he was pushing John toward the door. "Go out and pick us up something."

"What do you want?"

"Whatever you want."

"That's not a proper answer Sherlock."

"John, I don't care. Something to eat, please. I need to think."

"Fine. I'll return then." He left the building, wondering why he felt as if he were being watched even outside of work. John hated to think that he was growing used to the feeling of being hunted, like animal. He turned and glanced at Sherlock's building, wondering what direction to head in.

He wasn't particularly hungry, but hoped a brief walk would not only clear his mind but also build his appetite.

Sherlock, on the other hand was pouring over a copy of Grimm's fairy tales – one of the few sensible gifts left over from his mother, searching for something he thought would help them.

X

John was returning from a corner store, standing on a crowded corner, waiting for the light to change when he felt the push to his right shoulder.

Later, he could never prove it was Moriarty, or that it had not been an accident, a simple tumbling of the feet.

However, John found himself off the curb, his groceries beside him, and the twin headlights of a cab filling his eyes.

"Oi, watch it there," someone shouted, as strong hands grabbed him and pulled him from the road, the cab missing by a hair's breath. Dinner was not so lucky. John sat on the edge of the curb and caught his breath, glancing around at his surroundings.

"I'll have to buy dinner again," he said, looking forlornly at the shredded bag, finally scooping himself up.

When he finally returned to the flat, John explained to a still distracted Sherlock what had happened.

"Never mind all that," Sherlock told him dismissively, "I've been reading and things are becoming clearer."

"Well I am glad they are," John told him with an eye roll, setting out parts of dinner he hoped would heat in Sherlock's microwave.

"I have a plan."

"I'm listening."

"Keep doing the same thing."

John chuckled darkly. "Really? The same thing?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock, I was nearly mowed down by a cab. There is no sense of privacy in the office anymore. I grow more paranoid by the day. My recovering alcoholic sister thinks _I _need medication."

"And?"

"I thought you would be able to clue me in to your grand scheme of things."

"I will."

"When Sherlock? Don't you trust me?"

"John, it is not about trust."

"Then what is it about Sherlock?" John demanded, crossing his arms over his chest. "Enlighten me," he gestured.

"Timing."

"Timing?"

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Repeating me. I have a plan."

"You said that."

"Yes."

"I want to know what the plan is."

"I can't disclose that just yet."

John sighed, rubbing his temples. "Alright, tell me this. Are you not telling me the plan for my own safety?"

"Yes."

"Alright. Fine. For my safety."

"Your part in the plan is continuing as if nothing has happened. That you are not conspiring with me."

"Conspiring? I would have to know what you're conspiring before I can be considered conspiring Sherlock. Right now, I'm more like unaware accessory."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"I haven't slept properly since Jim Moriarty became an everyday annoyance."

"Then indulge me a few more nights."

"Not that I have a choice," John huffed as he fed in a time on the microwave.

X

**Author's End Note: **… not sure how I feel about this chapter. But the next one is mostly written, just a few more things to add and such : )


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